


Busman's Honeymoon

by ljs



Series: Investigations and Acquisitions [5]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This tale is set a few weeks after "The Fashion in Shrouds," and will include a Devon honeymoon, two special Scooby guest stars, a dark stranger, old magick, demon politics, spies, baggage, mystery, comedy, schmoop, and smut.</p><p>ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: the work of Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, the Beatles, and Celine Dion. No, really.<br/>Oh, and as always, this series crosses over with <em>Spooks</em> (aka <em>MI5</em>), going AU from the finale of its second series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The West End was waking up, its rubbish bags, staleness, and human and demon detritus of the night before washed clean in the pinks and blues of an early autumn sunrise.

The winds from passing taxis, busses, and those sad commuters who had to drive already swept through Charing Cross Road. The blue door of Nalph’s Mysterious Emporium rattled at the heaviest gusts, as did an unlatched steel gate set into the brick a few feet away.

Behind the gate was a passage, too constricted for most humans but just right for a Mikh merchant, which led to a minute courtyard and a door into the shop. Taking up most of the space was a boium tree, swaying in the wind. Wherever its leaves touched the walls, the acid it left behind etched into the brick.

But not many leaves touched. Its elephant-eared foliage was curling at the edges, sickly and brown, and its trunk was beginning to flake off in patches of hissing green.

Master Hat, his cloaked form far too big for the space, leaned out of the door and touched a covered hand to one of the leaves. It dissolved in his fingers. Shaking his head, the demon went back inside.

Hopping back as the door slammed shut, Nalph said, "What news, Master Hat?"

"The tree is definitely dying. Perhaps Grittnak shouldn’t have been executed so quickly; we still need its potion, still have souls to collect before the opening can begin." He shook off the last of the acid drops onto the dirt-covered floor. "I’ll ask the Lady Yeangelt for her thoughts. There must be someone who understands these matters."

Nalph stepped away from the snapping cloak and watched Master Hat thud back toward the tunnel and the hidden room. One claw coming to play with his dreadlocks as he considered his problems, he went to the door himself to look out at the boium.

Another gust of human-made wind caused one more leaf to fall, burning into the brick.

***

The late morning wind had picked up, a brisk whistling sweep through their bedroom. Felt rather invigorating, if he needed invigorating, which he didn’t. Nevertheless, in case he didn’t remember later, Giles shut the window and locked it tight with the requisite magick.

The candles on the night stand burned higher, flares of blue and yellow in the sunlight. Anya had lit them the second they’d awakened, sliding naked over his body to set flame to each wick. He’d put his arms around her to steady her, then brushed his stubbly cheek against her side until she protested, but she’d managed to complete the ritual that mattered so much to her.

Ignoring the nerves nipping pleasantly along his spine, he leaned down to blow them out. Then, loud enough to be heard on the other side of the shut bathroom door: "Aren’t you ready yet? It’s almost time, and one of my cuff...."

When the door opened, however, he lost all power of speech. She was – she looked – "Oh, dearest," he barely got out.

"So I look okay then?"she asked. When she did a little twirl, the vintage ivory silk of her dress fluttered around those gorgeous legs, and a few highlighted strands fell out of her upswept hair. The diamonds and gold of her engagement ring seemed to flicker with her movement.

"The term ‘okay’ is utterly inadequate." It took just a couple of steps to put his arms around her and pull her in. Even though she mumbled something about not getting messed up, she slid her own arms around his neck and smiled up at him. "Also, you’re very wise for not putting on lipstick yet."

Then he kissed her, trying to tell her with lips and tongue and breath – since the right words had left him– how much this day of rituals meant to him. Silk and pressure against him as she rose onto her toes and leaned in, she sent him back more than he could give. It was all he could do not to throw her on their bed, push up that ivory dress and unsnap those garters with his teeth, then sink inside – but there would be time for that later. Another, different ritual.

Even so, she was the one to pull away first. After she adjusted his glasses which somehow had gone crooked, she rubbed at his mouth with her thumb. "Actually, I’m not going to wear lipstick today. I’m figuring there’ll be a lot of that sort of activity the whole way through so what’s the point, you know?"

"I do know, and I repeat that you’re very wise." After a kiss to her finger, he let her go. "But could you please finish this one cufflink, I can’t seem to get it at all."

"Give it here."As she bent her head to her task, nimble fingers working against cloth and skin, she said, "Honestly, Rupert, I sometimes wonder how you ever managed without me."

"Not only do I not have the faintest idea, I never intend to do so again."

"You’re such a strategist, honey." She snapped the gold shut. "There you go."

"Thank you." He stole one more kiss before saying, "Right then. Andrew and Dawn took our suitcases down already and put them in the boot for later–"

"Except the overnight bag–"

"Except that one, obviously. And I have the licence."

Her hands crept up the lapels of his suit jacket, petting the material flat; he could hear the crinkling of the licence in his inner pocket, and he rather thought she could as well, judging from her shaky smile. "Great! I’ve got our rings."

Catching her hand, he said, "Are you ready at last?"

"Yep. And, honey, thank you for staying close to me this morning despite tradition. I needed you to," she said, soft voice at odds with her matter-of-fact words. Her smile steadied. "Now let’s go get married!"

As he ushered her out into the corridor, he could hear noises and voices from downstairs. That should be Willow; she’d called from Heathrow when her flight had shockingly gotten in bang on time, said she was on her way. He was grateful that she at least could put aside the past and join Anya and him today, and watch over Dawn and Andrew while they were gone – which set off a train of thought. "Did you manage to get in touch with Gillian or Siobhan, to remind them that we’re taking the cottage tonight?"

"Phone message left, e-mail sent, no reply. But we did tell them twice before, so stop worrying." Grinning, she said for the eighty-fifth sodding time, "Our honeymoon in your house in Devon... I’m marrying a landed gentleman!"

Oh, very funny. The impossible woman knew how much he hated that phrase she’d picked up from God alone knew where. Still: " _Our_ house, and no, I’m not. Swallow’s Nest is nothing more than a farm cottage. You’ve run the numbers; you know the bloody place has been a money-drain ever since my parents left it to me."

Not just expensive, but a place of remembered pain. He set aside the aches of that last summer he’d stayed there, when he’d walked or ridden over the moors every day to check on Willow at the coven. He still could taste the quiet and the loneliness in the stone-flagged kitchen, making his tea early in the morning or pouring his tumbler of Scotch late at night, when he’d look out at mist-shrouded yews and dream of Anya so far away. He still remembered the constant small shocks when every picture or corner reminded him of whom his parents had wanted him to be and how often he had fallen short. Afterwards he’d been happy to let the place to the coven for their overflow guests, to leave it behind.

Of course it wasn’t possible to leave behind who one was, as he and Anya knew. Yet there were different choices to be made.

Halting at the staircase, holding her so she couldn’t go anywhere either, he said one more time, "Even though we need to meet with the coven, er, there’s still time to change to Paris for the honeymoon. We could quickly book–"

"Eurostar, Chunnel, romantic hotel food wine scenery, blah blah," she finished. Going on tiptoe in order to brush her lips against his ear, she said over the increased noise from downstairs, "Rupert, we’ve covered this. It’s our honeymoon, which should be all about togetherness, intimacy, and lots of sex. More specifically, I want to be able to be very loud during the lots of sex if I want to, and I always want to with you– except when you instruct me to be quiet, of course. It’s only _sensible_ to be in our own place rather than a hotel."

"Do stop being wise, it’s just annoying now."

She beamed. "And because Jools Siviter and Wesley sent us hampers from Fortnum and Mason, we won’t even have to leave the cottage except for coven business! We can just lie in bed, and drink champagne, and eat clotted-cream fudge off each other’s bodies, and–"

"Er, right, let’s get this show on the road." And he pulled on her hand to hurry her.

From below one voice became clear as they descended. "–see, ‘Extraordinary crimes against the people and the state have to be avenged by agents extraordinary. Two such people are Rupert Giles, top professional, and Anya Jenkins, talented amateur, otherwise known as–‘"

"For fuck’s sake," Giles said, speeding down the last of the steps. As he went through the archway: "Andrew, we’ve talked about...."

The words trailed away when he saw who was sitting in the lounge. Andrew stood in his pontificating pose, that bloody video camera trained on the others. Next to Dawn on the couch sat Willow, who seemed tired from the long flight but looked lovely and happy and Willow-like in green. She gave a little wave.

But next to her – "Xander," Anya said, her voice tightening, her fingers crushing his.

"Hey, Anya. Giles." The boy – no, not a boy any more – shifted uneasily, his conciliating smile familiar from times past. Giles felt suddenly sick. "Robson sent me here to do a little Council construction work, and I thought, yeah, at the same time I might as well drop by and see what a wedding looks like all the way through."

"That’s not amusing," Anya said, sharp-edged.

"It wasn’t meant – I mean, it was, but – look, can I just go out and start all over again?"

"No, you can’t. It doesn’t work that way," Giles said. "Please excuse us for a moment."

He pulled Anya back out into the entry, away from everyone’s gaze. "Are, are you all right?" he whispered, although the question almost couldn’t be voiced for the nerves chewing at him. Here was the reality of his nightmares: she would go back to the younger man, leave him cold and alone. But he’d have to let her if she so wished, and better now than later.

"No, I’m furious! How dare he try to upset either one of us like this; he was a jerk for months, and then rude to us during the whole apocalypse, and now he thinks it’s a good idea to show up? It’s vengeance! The asshole thinks he’s wreaking vengeance!" she hissed, her hands digging into his arms. Then she faltered, indignation dissolving into her own nerves, "Did it work? Do you still want to marry me?"

No words for that; he could only kiss her quiet. "Please, Anya. I was worried that _you_ wouldn’t want to marry _me_ now," he said when he could.

"Oh, honey, come on!" But her hands were shaking so much that he had to grasp them to ease her. She said, "How many times do I have to choose you before you get it?"

"I could say the same thing, darling. Perhaps we should review." He interlaced the fingers of their hands, her left, his right, palm to palm, just as they’d practised for the wedding ceremony. "Mine. Yours."

She mirrored his motion, his left, her right. "Yep, mine. Yours." Then she leaned back a little while still holding tight, her smile returning. "So we’re still good?"

"Quite good," he said, pulling her in for one more kiss.

A cough from the archway made them look around. Xander stood there, hands in his pockets. "Look, hey, this wasn’t supposed to be a bad thing. Not planning a whole Graduate ‘Elaaaine!’ scene at the back of the church, or hall or wherever–"

"Islington Registrar’s Office," Anya said. "And I don’t know the scene you’re referring to."

Giles said, "I do. Xander, you’re saying you just came to, um, observe?"

The marred gaze was steady, even if the smile wasn’t too firm. "Nah, I came to celebrate. Or give it a shot, anyway. Scooby reporting for duty." He saluted, a joking gesture that didn’t quite work.

"And so is Scooby Number Two," Willow said, sliding her arms around his waist to anchor him, a reverse-image to the picture Giles’s vision had shown him on that horrible day she had threatened the world. "So, you guys, are we done with the ritual freak-out, and ready to get on with the actual ritual?"

The doorbell rang. Pulling Giles along with her, Anya headed for the door. "Zoe, Danny, come in!"

"Hello, Beresfords! Your witnesses are ready to witness," Danny said cheerfully. Zoe just offered a bottle of champagne and a smile.

Dawn and Andrew crowded into the hallway behind Willow and Xander. "Hello, fellow spies! Work it for the camera, that’s right," Andrew said, still wielding that sodding thing. "And we’ve got two more people to ride with you to the place of marriage."

"Zoe, you were so right about these sandals – and hey, people, let’s get a move on!" Dawn said.

"Yes, Dawn’s right," Giles said, smiling at his bride. His nerves barely gnawed at him now. "Let’s get this show on the road."

***

"‘Mine. Yours.’ ‘Yours. Mine.’" Sniffling happily, Andrew recited the words along with the video playback. "Oh Dawn, I love this part. Let’s watch it again."

She grinned at him. "You are such a sap, Andrew. But it’s kinda cute in a geeky sapfest sort of way."

"Hold your tongue, hard-hearted Watcher girl," he said, nudging her with his shoulder. "And pass me the cider, please, and maybe one of those crackers."

From his vantage point in the arch between living room and hall, Xander tried to smile at the pair sitting on the bottom step of the staircase. There was something so familiar about the way the two chattered. For a minute he could imagine himself back in Sunnydale – not the hole in the ground, but an ideal Sunnydale, clean and brightly lit like a sitcom, where he and Willow forever bantered like the best friends they were, while Buffy flitted in and out Slayer-like and golden.

A place where he hadn’t lost an eye. Where Anya hadn’t married Giles.

He shifted again, turning away from the brewing argument on the stairs. Fuck, but the wedding had been hard to watch. Not that anything about the fast, tidy ceremony in the city-hall type place reminded him of the nightmare wedding that wasn’t: no, just a few people to witness, including some supercilious, older James Bond guy who’d smoked three cigarettes right under the "No Smoking" sign before slipping away; the quiet vows that Anya and Giles had spoken directly to each other, as if giving voice to what was already rock-solid real; the mundane paperwork afterward.

Christ, the _happiness_ of her, the ease in her own skin – he couldn’t recognise the woman he had loved. And Giles looked so much younger, even with that new silver in his hair.

Absently he rubbed his fist over his heart.

Willow must have been using her mind-meld skills, because she looked up from her intense conversation with the two MI5 people. That Danny guy had edged close to her – too bad, Lando, no luck to be had with Leia, Xander thought, then cursed himself for a Star Wars reference after only two hours of contact with Andrew. "Xander?" she said, recalling his attention. "You okay? I’ve got room if you want to snuggle in." She patted the couch cushion beside her.

"Thanks, but I’m great," he said. "Think I’ll just get myself a little more wine."

"You haven’t had any yet," she pointed out.

"Then I think I should catch up. The wedded-bliss folks should be down for the big sendoff soon, I want to be able to toast them."

As he turned, he found Dawn and Andrew looking at him too. "Might I fix you your beverage, Xander? Perhaps something to eat too?" Andrew said, starting to get up.

He thought he heard Dawn whisper "Coming on too strong, sweetie," but he couldn’t be sure. Hard to be sure of anything at the moment. But he made himself smile, say "No, got it covered, young Padawan," and hurry into the quiet kitchen.

It wasn’t much better there. He recognised bits and pieces from Giles’s Sunnydale apartment; of course his stuff had been sent on to England the year before, hadn’t been swallowed up like everything else. Kitchen herbs were growing in the window, just like Anya had always wanted. The room smelled of wine and living things and the food laid out on the kitchen table.

Xander went over to the table, picking at the unfamiliar snacks on display. No chips or anything that a Harris would call a buffet – just weird spreads and skeezy cheeses and crackers and fruit, and a plate of fancy French cakes. After sitting down in one of the kitchen chairs, he went straight for the chocolate pastry.

One bite, one bad memory. Those last days in Sunnydale he had been busy with various apocalyptic markers, like Faith’s attempts to make up for near-strangulation and the even stranger glimmerings of friendship from Spike. Giles and Anya hadn’t been around much after that disaster with breaking Spike’s trigger; they came to the Summers house for meetings, for Slayer training and Anya’s work in keeping the place running, but they didn’t stay. He didn’t have to think about them. So it had been a fucking shock one afternoon to come across the two of them alone on the back porch, splitting a chocolate bar. Giles had been murmuring something in between feeding bites to Anya; she had taken a square, then smeared chocolate all over the old man’s mouth. "For fuck’s sake, darling, you’re impossible," he’d growled, before tackling her onto the grass as if he was thirty, not almost fifty. She had butted her head into his shoulder, laughing, her arms locking around his waist. Neither one had seen Xander there, neither saw him slip back into the house.

That was the moment he had known she was really Giles's. He just hadn’t admitted it until now. Took him a while to process things, he guessed.

He reached for the bottle of red wine, poured himself a splash. Then he returned to the pastry. That was some good stuff, if not as good as your average Ho-ho or Ding-dong.

It must have been the sugar and jet-lag combo which made him so fuzzy that he didn’t recognise the tap of boot-heels in the hallway or the murmur of voices. Which meant he wasn’t prepared when Anya, changed into her going-away jeans and a little sweater, came into the kitchen. Alone.

"Oh, hello, Xander," she said, after a small hesitation. "Do help yourself to the food. I don’t think it’ll make great left-overs."

"Thanks, Ahn." She twitched when he said that, he didn’t know why. But she nodded, then picked up the electric kettle and took it over to the sink. "What are you doing?"

"Making tea which can be taken on the road in an insulated container. Rupert will want something caffeinated to drink while he’s driving." The tap hissed on.

"Sure. Yeah." The second cake wasn’t sitting very well in his stomach – he pushed its remains away, then sucked the chocolate off his finger.

As she moved around, getting down a thermos and some fancy tea, he watched her. By this time he was adjusting to the change both in vision and of heart; he didn’t recognise the woman he had loved, he thought again. And he forced himself to say, "I don’t think I made with the whole ‘congratulations’ thing before, but I should say it now. So, um, congratulations."

She didn’t speak until she’d poured the hot water over the tea stuff in the pot. Then, briskly: "Congratulations accepted."

Her tone rubbed him the wrong way for some reason. "That’s not how you’re supposed to respond, you know. Say ‘thanks’ or whatever."

"You don’t get to tell me what to say, Xander." Smacking the empty kettle back on its base, she whirled to face him. He scooted his chair back at the signs of vengeance – but then she took a deep breath and smiled. He almost preferred her vengeance-face; the smile was honest and bright, and no, still didn’t recognise it. "But okay, you’re right. Thanks. Thank you for letting me go."

"What?"

"I would have been much more grateful if in the course of letting go you hadn’t broken my heart and left me at the worst possible moment, which led to pain and death and bad times all around. But you were right – we weren’t meant to get married. I understand that now." That smile deepened into joy. Playing with the new ring on her finger, she said, "I hope you find someone who suits you and doesn’t need correction, Xander, who you can love with everything you’ve got and who actually makes it through the wedding. Just like I found."

"Darling," Giles said from the archway.

Xander had to look away. Even with his changed vision, he shouldn’t have to see that open happiness on Giles’s face. God, his stomach hurt. Fucking chocolate.

She finished doing whatever with the tea, poured it into the thermos, then went to Giles. They kissed lightly, Giles’s hand spread on her back, before she said, "I’ll put this in the hamper, honey. Then I have to pee one more time, and we can go."

"Fine. Hurry," he said, and she tripped out of the kitchen. Then he looked over at Xander, his expression unreadable now.

Xander never had been able to read Giles, not that he’d really tried. It was just... Giles, tweedy old-guy librarian who, he just realised, hadn’t actually worn tweed for over four years. What else had he failed to notice? Clearing his throat, he said, "So, hey, congratulations. Said it to Anya, say it to you now."

"Thank you, Xander. You’re more generous than I."

"Sorry?"

Giles looked away for a second, thinking Gilesian thoughts, before saying, "Well, I couldn’t bear to attend _your_ wedding, after all."

‘Couldn’t bear’ – Jesus, though he’d known the demon-hunting excuse was lame, he hadn’t figured that out. Hadn’t noticed– "Even then?"

Another hesitation. "Yes, even then. But I, I never would have spoken, had you gone through with it." A breath to let that sink in. "As Anya said, thank you for letting her go. Thank you for your presence today." Finally, a small smile. "You’re far more generous than I, Xander. A good man."

In order to swallow a swell of feeling he couldn’t identify, Xander took a couple more bites of chocolate. Then, as cheerfully as he could through a full mouth: "No problem. You married the scary wife; you can handle her."

"Yes, I think I can." The front door slammed, and Giles looked over his shoulder to check where aforementioned scary new wife was before saying, "Although I hear you’ve been dating Faith? If ever there was a woman who deserved the adjective...."

"Yeah, well, we’re on a break. Again. And please stop chatting about my so-called love life, it’s freaking me out and I’m thinking another apocalypse is nigh. I mean, they’re always nigh, but more nigh, a higher state of nigh, nigher...."

"Ah, some babble never changes." Giles actually grinned. "I hope you enjoy your stay in London. You said you’re doing something for the Council?"

"Smooth segue there. Um, yeah. I’m here for a couple of days to get the work started on the former Council site. I’ll set up inspections, any further clearing, that sort of thing. Got a meeting with a potential buyer tomorrow morning."

Giles looked down at his boots. "Then I’m doubly grateful. It’s been, er, painful to have the reminders of what was." When he looked up, Xander swallowed hard again. Apparently pain was an understatement. "You’ll stay here with Willow, I assume? We do have two guest rooms – in addition to Dawn and Andrew’s attic, which is currently not being renovated although we’re paying some bloody builders a king’s ransom to do so."

There was no place less inviting than the happy London home of his ex-fiancee and his former whatever-Giles-was, but he found himself saying, "I’d like that. I’ll keep an eye on the Juniors for you. Well, obviously only _one_ eye –" At Giles’s stare, he said more seriously, "Sorry. Yeah, I’ll stay, thanks. Buffy wanted to know how Dawn was really doing; it’ll make my report more detailed."

"Ah. Buffy." Still more pain. Xander decided not to ask him about the strange way the Queen Slayer had jumped to take a minor Council task in Mexico rather than come to the wedding.

At that moment the MI5 types came up behind Giles, surrounded him. "Tommy, we have to go, but we’ll wave you off," Zoe said, her hand on his arm.

"Right, mate, well done. We’ll keep the kiddies in line for you too," Danny added.

"You don’t need to, we’re cool!" Dawn called on the fly – Xander could see her sprinting into the living room, see Willow spun around by the energy and then come up laughing. His friend, his refuge: she looked across at him and grinned.

"We’ll go to the office as usual, Giles, and work on our appointed tasks. We’ll make you proud," Andrew said, barrelling into view.

Giles began, "I’m sure you will, but we should go over–"

But Anya was suddenly there too, locking her arms around his waist. "We don’t have time for you to lecture, Rupert. Come on, come on, honeymoon!"

A tide of laughter and shouted encouragements, hugs and handshakes, pushed Giles and Anya in the general direction of the door and down the gravelled walk. Xander joined Andrew and Willow in the entry, doing his best to cheer and laugh too. Zoe and Danny clapped madly from the pavement as the newlyweds reached their car.

While Anya held on to him, Giles put on his sunglasses. Then, in a swashbuckling move, he dipped her low to kiss her. Her hands buried in his hair, she arched into him like a dancer. They must have practised, Xander thought. Or maybe they just fit together that way.

From the living room came the sound of the Beatles. _Who knows how long I’ve loved you, You know I love you still...._

"It’s hard to find music that appeals to both of them, what with the ongoing Patti Smith vs Diana Ross controversy, " Andrew confided. "This is the best Dawnie and I could do."

After skidding into the hallway, Dawn pulled Andrew out onto the threshold to wave goodbye. "Bye, you guys! Have fun!" she called.

After they waved back, Giles opened the passenger door for Anya, then crossed to his own side.

 _Love you for ever and forever, love you with all my heart...._ The lyrics and the moment didn’t hurt the way Xander thought they would. Yep, change in vision, change of heart.

But it was nice when Willow put her arm around him. "You sure you’re okay, Xand?"

"Yeah. I really am," he said as he watched the black Saab pull away into the afternoon. Didn’t feel bad after all. Except for too much chocolate.

When he looked around, Dawn and Andrew had joined Willow, faces smiling in concern for him. Dawn said, "We’ve got to put away the food first, but then – even with jet-lag and whatever, you guys want to go to the pub with us? Grab some real food, a little beer?"

"Oh, _bless_ you, my children," he said.

***

In the hidden room, the black candles burned as they always did, next to the bodies of the sleeping.

The Lady Yeangelt brushed her hand over the unconscious Pennith’s face, murmuring a magick that Master Hat couldn’t hear. His hood over his eyes, he listened to the earth and the flames instead. He waited for his moment.

Yeangelt finally turned around. Her voice hushed, she said, "So you say the boium tree needs what to survive? We’ll need its leaves for several more weeks of collection."

He consulted the notes in his hand, even though he knew the answer. "Crushed Noothian canusses. This was what the son of a Nazgut said was the preferred fertiliser. Of course, the tree also might not be getting enough sun in the courtyard –"

"Hmm. Come with me to the Emporium." He followed the sorceress out of the room, into the tunnel. On makeshift shelves along the walls, those seemingly empty glass jars rattled and sighed as they passed.

More shelves lined the storeroom, although here were supplies and magick worth a demon’s fortune. Although Master Hat personally believed that Nalph could pay more tribute, with as much treasure as the Mikh shopkeeper displayed – there would be no cant about ‘Mikh Lord’ for Hat, he knew who the creature was – Pennith had always said there were more riches with Nalph as an ally. The Lady believed this too.

Master Hat kept his claws sharpened, however, in case she ever saw the truth and instructed him to rip some treasure from the Mikh’s guts.

After rapping at the closed office door and receiving no answer, the Lady said, "Our Nalph must be out in the shop area. As you know my thoughts–"

"I’ll fetch him for you, Lady." With a snap of his cloak, he strode through those ridiculous babies’ skulls and into the shop.

Even though it was before hours, Nalph was serving two Romut demons with their weekly order of Mangit sole – a pleasant joke, that, as the Romut spirits were scheduled to be collected next week if they didn’t pay their back-tribute. The shopkeeper grunted at Hat’s entrance, then turned his attention to the package he was wrapping.

Behind the Romuts stood a couple of those nasty earth-eaters. Hat had never quite seen the purpose of them, thought they should have been harvested for fuel months ago. Still, he’d get them soon enough. Their spirits were so small that they’d do to fill the cracks in the collection – only half a room yet to fill, once they bought the right land. Maybe they wouldn’t need the missing Cup of Xet after all.

The younger of the earth-eaters, Pim, edged forward and bowed. "Hello, Master."

He showed his teeth. "Hello, earth-creature." As the demon stumbled back, though, it struck Hat that the drooling soil-cruncher might have something to offer. "Tell me, Pim, do you know anything about Noothian canusses?"

"Noothian canusses," Pim repeated in a serious tone. "No, no, I can’t say I do. That’s a very, very specialised product requiring cultivation. There was a demon in Greenwich–" But he broke off when Hat delicately extended his hands, claws visible under the gloves. Quickly he said, "What you need is someone to find the canusses for you. If Nalph can’t, that is."

"I don’t know where to buy them, no. None of my vendors carry them." One hop, one final twist of the paper, and Nalph accepted the demon-coin from the Romuts. Once they had barked their way out of the shop, he crossed his claws together and said, "So what is your plan, Master Hat?"

"As the little earth-eater says, we need an acquisitions specialist."

"‘Acquisitions’!" Pim said. "Oh, oh, who was it....Anyanka! Or not Anyanka now, of course, because she’s turned human. She runs a business – oh, what was it, Nalph, I was distracted when she was here before –"

"Oh yes. Anyanka. I don’t quite remember the business name, young Pim. She left a card, but it disappeared some weeks ago."

Master Hat straightened. "I see. The Lady wishes to speak with you now, Nalph; perhaps you can confer with her about this acquisitions possibility. This human could even help search for the Cup, do you think?"

"It’s a possibility," Nalph said, his eyes indigo-opaque, before he hopped through the skull-curtain. The babies didn’t chatter for him, which made Hat want to take off his gloves and cut himself some blue meat for luncheon. Still, it wasn’t the right moment.

As he passed the earth-creature, Pim kept talking, if only to himself. "What was that name? Hmm, hmm... it started with a G, I think...."

***

"Oh God, honey," Anya moaned, liquefying into the blanket below her, into the hard ground below that. Her hands under the top blanket held Rupert’s head to her, as he took one breast more deeply into his mouth and at the same time pinched the other nipple beyond pain into pleasure. When he shifted, his belly pressing against her open legs, she tried to get closer to ease them both. "Oh God, honey. Up, up."

The afternoon sun slanted over the hedge, dazzling through her closed eyes. Even though it was all sun and pleasure, the light and the loving suction of his mouth and the weight of his body, she needed him higher. Her husband, deep as he could go: that’s what she wanted. Pulling his tousled head up, she said, "Please, inside, up now –"

He smiled at her, a love-drunk grin which made her almost burst into pleasure right then, and then caught her hard and rolled so she was on top. The blanket slipped off, the cool wind caressing where his body had been. "That wasn’t what I meant," she half-laughed, half-sighed.

But he had raised up on an elbow, kissing her beyond thought. She went with him, skin to skin, breath to breath. With his free arm he slid her down, moaning himself when she rolled against that hard length. She got a hand down to stroke him base to tip, to play with that soft head. Shivering, he moved so he could nip her neck just where she liked.

Then he lay back on the ground, and with his hands on her hips – her first finger-bruises of the marriage, she found herself thinking – lifted her. "Up then, darling."

She guided him in, sank down all the way while he rose up hard. There, there, that was what she wanted. She began to move, watching his eyes almost shut, feeling the fingers of one hand lock on her thigh. His other hand came around to press in and circle, to lift her higher.

Sun against her narrowed eyes, wind against her back, Rupert underneath and in and out and in, and it was so good that she couldn’t wait. "Yes, let go, honey, now, please," she cried, even as she broke around him, falling onto his chest.

But he was still moving, so she didn’t stop, couldn’t. He moved his legs up, pushed inside even further again and again, through pain to all pleasure, until the sun dimmed and he said in a dark, dark voice, "There, my wife, _Christ_ , mine."

As the wind blew over their overheated bodies, they shuddered together and came to rest.

In a minute or two, when her aftershocks eased and she could identify her surroundings again, she said, "Okay. Where’s the blanket?"

"Round here somewhere," he murmured. "You want it?"

"Yes, but I’ll get it." Pushing herself up, she looked around. It had fallen on top of their clothes, on top of one of the food hampers. She scrabbled for it, then pulled it over them both as she lay down again on his chest. "There, is that good?"

"My feet aren’t covered. But it’s fine," he said, his hand stealing to curl around the nape of her neck. "Except there’s a sodding huge rock under my back."

"Should we move?"

"Can’t move yet. Just suffer here quietly with my wife." His thumb traced against her skin, stirring the hairs, impossibly stirring a trace of new pleasure.

"Poor man." She kissed his chest, licking at the salt and heat of him. "But I have to say it. You’re a damn genius, honey."

"Really. I thought I was an idiot – you say that to me daily."

"Well, you often do idiotic things, but fundamentally you’re a genius. Who else would have thought to ask Wes for the afternoon loan of the Wyndam-Pryce estate?"

"Just good planning, despite the slight detour." His chuckle shook them both. "Wes was so politic about it. ‘Yes, Giles. Of course you may use the North Field for your honeymoon...picnic.’" He perfectly imitated that nice insane man’s dry courtesy.

"Well, really, we couldn’t be expected to wait all the way to Devon to consummate our marriage. There’s no sense in that. As it is, Oxfordshire is almost too far." She brushed her head against him. "We’re lucky it isn’t raining, though."

"In such an emergency we’d have used the back seat, darling. Simple planning." He kissed her forehead and then stretched, the movement of his body lifting her, causing the blanket to slip a little. "You know, I think I’ll have a smoke."

"Huh. Okay, but you know the rules. You only get one."

"For fuck’s sake, darling." He eased out from under her, which made her briefly sad, and then reached for his shirt. As he shrugged it on, though, he stopped short, his hand coming back to her and his lazy after-sex voice changing: "Hang on. Don’t look."

"‘Don’t look at–" But her voice caught in her throat when she saw the what.

Two terrifying hoppy creatures were just a yard away, gazing at them from underneath the hedge, _threatening_ them.

"Oh no, oh no. Rupert, do something," she whispered, flinging her arms around his waist.

He felt around under their ground blanket, picked up the rock that had been poking him. "Go away," he said authoritatively. Their hideous noses twitched, as if they were going to pounce any second, but they didn’t move.

When she felt him start to laugh, she smacked his stomach. "It’s not funny!"

Oh God. At the smack the creatures actually hopped closer. She bit back a scream at the sight of encroaching rabbit evil, because it wasn’t appropriate for a newly married spy. Instead she closed her eyes and held on tighter.

His muscles bunching underneath her hold, he skimmed the rock in the bad things’ direction and bellowed, "Sod off!" There came the crash of leaves, maybe even a chattering of sharp teeth, but then silence. His hand covered hers. "You can look now. They’re gone."

A quick peek revealed that the surroundings were indeed monster-free. Leaning her cheek against his back, she said, "Boy, I chose right when I picked you."

"Um-hm. I promise to chase all your rabbits away, darling," he said. "Which sounds absolutely ridiculous when I say it out loud."

"No, it sounds _great_! It should have been in your vows!" she said, sliding around to crawl into his lap. After a grab for the blanket and a not entirely successful attempt to tuck it around them both, she snuggled into his arms. "I wasn’t kidding before, either. Let’s look at your record today. You stayed with me this morning; you didn’t let the surprise-ex-fiance visit upset me for more than a long, painful minute; you made it through the wedding without running–"

"It never crossed my mind." He cradled her face in his palm – which was a little dirty from the rock-throwing, she noticed, but that was just fine. Just fine.

"That’s what I’m saying, honey. You married me willingly. You gave me incredible just-married sex in a field. You scared away the ferocious bunny predators." She reached up to kiss him. "You’re exactly the husband I want."

"Ah. I’ll try not to break my streak, then. Let’s see." He slipped his other hand down across her stomach, laid his palm against her and pressed in where she was still sensitive and swollen. One slide of his hand, two, three, and she broke again, a small but pleasurable afterburst that jolted her against him.

"Oh, Rupert. Love you," she managed.

"Love you too. My wife." She almost couldn’t hear his deep, soft voice, but she could feel the words.

The sun had dropped below the hedge by now, giving a green filtered light that trembled when the wind hit the leaves. It was getting chillier too; she reached around one last time to tuck the blanket up, so they could hold each other in relative comfort. Soon they’d have to fold up the blankets, grab something to eat from one of the hampers, get themselves back on the road. They had a long drive ahead of them yet.

Still, she wanted to hang onto this moment as long as she could, before the monsters could come back.

***

To Willow, the dark, smoke-stained pub felt like miles from anywhere she knew, even though it was only a couple of blocks from Giles and Anya’s house. Some sporting event she didn’t recognise blared away on the corner TV, but the noise didn’t disguise the alien accents, not like the BBC or Giles or even Spike. The food, jacket-potatoes and weird sandwiches, baffled her too – although the French fries they were all sharing seemed okay– and she didn’t get the whole concept of shandy. Of course it wasn’t like she’d been pub-girl during that summer in Devon.

Foreignness. Jet-lag. Time-lag. Nowhere – but that was the pub’s name.

The Junior Watchers seemed at home, though, and how weird was it to call Dawn and Andrew that. Even as Willow thought this, a beep came from Dawn’s bag on the ground.

Dawn dove into the purse and pulled out some handheld device and then a not-phone phone. "Result, Andrew!" she said. Swinging herself around on the bench so that she was leaning away from the pub table, and then made a call. After a few seconds, she said, "Hey Miss Carter! Colin’s GPS thingie just beeped, which means they stopped somewhere in Oxfordshire – Yep, that means Ruth won the pool. Probably used the GCHQ facilities to research or something, seems like cheating. Anyway, here are the coordinates– "

As Dawn chattered on, Willow raised her eyebrows at Andrew across the table. Using a French fry like a laser-pointer in the ketchup, he explained, "Dawn and I hid an MI5 tracking device in Giles and Anya’s car; there was a betting pool on how soon they would stop for the physical expression of their wedded love." A slide of the fry along the red, a screeching halt. "I’m really impressed they lasted that long. I guessed Slough, and Dawn didn’t think they’d get out of London."

Willow glanced at Xander, but he seemed immune to the whole Giles-Anya-monkey-sex element of the conversation. Of course he also was drinking that beer awfully fast. She said, just to check, "You used British government spy technology for a bet?"

"Yes," Andrew said. "Although if Giles and Anya had thought about it, they could have warded the car and escaped our surveillance. That’s why Dawn’s talking outside the wards we set? The mobile goes all weird inside."

Smiling, she laid her hands on the wooden table and allowed herself to feel the hum, the rippling of a veil – simple barriers that Dawn and Andrew had invoked with a little powder and a few words. They were growing up so fast, she thought.

Funny how she could look at Andrew now and see his crimes as something belonging to his childhood – just like hers, lost to a crater, to dead ground. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror she expected her hair to still be white. She felt the drain of magicks strong and weak, light and dark, hers and others. Too many connections to bear easily, too little to ease her.

Dawn finished her call, then swivelled back around after dropping the phone back in her purse. She said, "Oh, you guys were talking about the wards? Did you notice the ones on the house, Willow? They’re your spell, you know. When Giles showed us how to set up the barriers, he told us that our safety depended on you."

The compliment made Willow smile, at least until she looked at Xander. He was staring at the bottom of his glass like it held all the secrets of connection.

Andrew noticed it too. His brow furrowing, his voice rising a little, he said, "Um, Xander? Would you care for some more chips? That would be French fries to an American, of course, and not the pressed potato-products more commonly known to us as–"

"That’d be great, Andrew. Go. Find some English chips," Xander said.

"I’ll go too," Dawn said. "Anybody want anything else?"

"I’ll have another cider – but no, you can’t buy drinks, um –" Willow began.

"I can. We have it covered, anyway," Andrew said.

Dawn added, "We know Jo at the bar? And we need to tell her that she didn’t win the pool."

The two of them headed toward the polished bar. When Xander turned his head to watch them, she did too, trying to see them through his gaze. Dawn was so tall and confident, she realised, as if the little Summers girl had been left behind in America. Andrew was still Andrew, but less gangling and geekish, more connected to the world in a way he hadn’t been before. They leaned on the bar, already chattering to the really hot bartender, a Spanish woman in her early 30s–

"Looking at the waitstaff, Will?" Xander said, finishing off his beer.

She frowned at him. "I was merely cataloguing the relevant features of the Duke of Nowhere – okay, yes, the bartender is cute. Shut up."

"Hey, not a problem for me, especially since you’ve sent Kennedy and her tongue-stud packing. Go forth and flirt; I live vicariously through your adventures."

"Says the man who has an on-again, off-again thing with the scariest of Slayers." When she received a return frown, she said, "Sorry. Forgot the no-go-ness of the Faith topic, although it doesn’t seem fair, what with...Okay, never mind. So was it Dawn or Andrew you were looking at?"

"What?" His voice went up a familiar Xander-octave. Caught, ha ha.

"The staring at the Junior Watchers thing, pal. I can’t tell which one’s the target, though."

He pointed the empty glass at her. "First of all, I’m not looking at the Junior Watchers, because ewww, and further, ewww. Second of all, we will not discuss your insane ideas about my sexuality, Miss Rosenberg. Not discussing. Completely not discussing. I get enough torture from Faith."

"Not discussing," she said agreeably, and tossed back the last of her drink. "However–"

"No! No no no!" The glass came down hard on the table. "I’d almost rather talk about Giles and Anya’s wedding than your theories about the Kinsey scale and one Alexander Lavelle Harris, especially since, as we all know, your psych teacher was a crazy fascist monster-builder."

"‘Kay. Let’s talk about the wedding." She grinned at him when he hid his face in his arms, then she laid a hand on his. "No, really. I know you say you’re okay, but are you okay?"

He turned his head to smile at her, sleepy and sweet. "I am, in fact, okay."

"Good. Good, because I know I talked you into coming, and talked to Robson to get you to come, and–"

"Willow, it’s _okay_." His hand turned, grasping hers. "It was strange, but good strange. I feel free now. And a little sick to my stomach, but that’s because the American constitution isn’t made for the French pastry. Those Frog bastards." After a pause, he said, "But maybe you’ll tell me something. What’s wrong with Buffy?"

"Oh. Buffy." She picked at a stray napkin.

"Yes, Buffy. First and still Queen Slayer–"

"That’s what Andrew calls her; it must be some kind of sign."

"Stop. We’re talking about Buffy: ‘bout so high, shoe fetish, souled vampire fetish, not so much with the attending-her-Watcher’s wedding thing. I was too freaked out earlier to ask, but – what the hell was that?"

"She’s...I don’t really get what the problem is. And I don’t think she does either." Willow didn’t want to think about Buffy crying on her bed the night of Giles and Anya’s engagement, stammer-sobbing about missing Dawn and it was Giles’s fault, and from no choice to too many choices, and something about Spike and Angel. And also baking, but that didn’t make sense so Willow hadn’t pursued it.

Before she could fumble for an explanation, though, the Junior Watchers were back, carrying food – chips of both kinds and a couple of sandwiches – and drinks. "We think that a protein-carb combination will help your travel-weariness," Andrew announced, as he slid the food onto the table.

"Or you could take a nap. Looks like Xander’s already there," Dawn said, sitting down.

"Just resting my weary eyes. But give me beef, and beer, and I’ll be fighting crime again in no time," Xander said, reaching for one of the sandwiches.

"Well, that’s good about the crime-fighting. Because let me tell you, London is a hotbed of criminal demon activity, which we at Giles and Jenkins monitor closely in conjunction with our short-staffed friends at MI5." Andrew took a drink of his cider, then said, "We’ll ask you both for assistance tomorrow, when you’re not so...floppy."

"Floppy?" Xander yelped..

"We’re not judging you," Dawn said, and handed him a French fry, which Willow thought was a bit too much of the limp-phallus imagery. "Jet-lag, it’s a thing. Anyway, we have to staff Investigations and Acquisitions tomorrow, answer the phones, finish a couple of reports–"

"And we’re of course still working on the important Xet-prophecy material. You two as Original Scoobies probably have valuable input on such questions as ‘Day of the Dead: Actual Cultural Reference or Mere Supervillain Descriptor?’" Andrew nodded wisely.

"I thank God I have another meeting in the morning," Xander said. After another drink of beer, however, he added, "But hey, after that– when in London, what else is there to do but research?"

"Oh, lots of things," Dawn said. She scooted closer to Willow so she could say quietly, "Speaking of... do you want to meet Jo, who works the bar here? She’s nice, and she, like, plays on your team."

"Dawnie–"

Eyes big and melting, Andrew looked at Xander. "I’m sorry that we don’t have an available bartender for you."

"That’s perfectly all right. Really," Xander said. Then he started laughing, a helpless wheeze that took over his whole body. On a gasp: "Does anyone else think this day has been really, really weird?"

"Yep, sweetie. It’s all about the time-lag," Willow said, grabbing his hand across the table.

Some connections did make everything easier to bear.

***

Nalph’s private office was crowded. The shopkeeper himself sat at his desk, a claw passing along his dreadlocks in contemplation. Lurking against the cabinets was Master Hat, flanked by his faithful half-demon followers Garrison and Bixp. Yeangelt assumed that he was attempting to reinforce his place in the conspiracy, although if she were honest, he didn’t have to.

With Griffin and her Pennith still healing from their wounds, living on power from souls she couldn’t really spare from the Opening, Master Hat and Nalph were all she had.

But she had been the Lady Yeangelt for far longer than simple humans could understand. She’d been waiting for the right time – the multitude of Slayers and warriors on this benighted earth was the fulcrum. It marked her prophecy and her escape.

Or it would soon enough.

Interrupting her allies’ strained conversation, she moved into the lantern-light and said, "We have two orders of business tonight. Master Hat tells me that his team’s forays into human back-alleys and demon-haunts have been successful; souls and spirits have been collected on schedule. That leaves us with two problems."

"The boium tree?" Nalph said.

"Yes. I’ll ask you to use your contacts, Nalph – perhaps find this Anyanka person, use her acquisition services. If she was once a demon, she should be susceptible to reason." After his nod, she turned to Master Hat. "Have you arranged the meeting for tomorrow as I asked of you?"

"Yes, Lady. Although I don’t quite see–"

"You don’t need to see, Master Hat. Let me just say that I’m exploring...alternatives...to the Cup of Xet."

"But the truth-sayers tell us that the Rising Time is triggered only when the Cup comes together," Nalph said. "You know another way, sorceress?"

"As it happens, Mikh Lord, I might." She had read the runes on the scroll that only Pennith knew she had. She had called on those past, drunk knowledge from them. A path had marked itself, even though she couldn’t see the future.

Her allies and soldiers stared at her. She could feel their doubt, even Master Hat’s.

Although part of her knew she should be conserving strength, the long days of stitching spirit back into her fallen had made her restless and fed her cravings for flight. She needed to remind them who Yeangelt had been and was. Smiling at them, she said, "Shall I fetch you all a gift to show how you can trust me?"

She folded her hands together, then lifted, lifted, so that she could step into space–

And she was there.

Sunset behind grey buildings, dark overhead. Although lights from passing cars sliced over the black, empty site, she knew how to fade away from human vision, just as she knew how to mimic humanity. She rather enjoyed both, which was why tomorrow morning should be pleasant.

But now, in the dark, she bent to touch the ground. The land hadn’t been completely cleared after last year’s explosion. The earth still shook inside with the voices of souls and spirits lost twice, once when collected, once when the building blew up.

No, the Lady Yeangelt hadn’t been the only one interested in collecting demon-spirits, she thought, smiling. The old Council in its deepest heart, its secret places, had understood her tastes. The inner circle might have said they were doing it for good, but she knew there were always a few who really liked the extraction and the pain. Good could shade into dark so easily.

It had been so lovely earlier this year when the darkest of the remaining Watchers had called on her and her creatures. He had drawn the sigil and spoken the word, thinking to use her at worst, stop her at best. But it had been the wrong word. She and Pennith had come at his call, of course, but not in the way he’d expected.

His soul she didn’t harvest. That one she had drunk down with a smile.

The thought reminded her to scoop up two handfuls of dirt. She could feel the soul-traces, spirit-traces, a faint humming in her palms. They would brew up nicely; with a few pinches of magick from Nalph’s stores, the potion would give her allies strength of purpose and would prepare her for the meeting in the morning.

After she looked once more at the site in the dark, memorising the feel of it, she folded her hands together, trapping the earth, and lifted them.

***

Cursing under his breath, Giles struggled through the door with the suitcases and the larger of the hamper. With a sigh he dropped the cargo on the entryway stones, then looked around at the dark interior. Light, light, light....

He remembered that there always had been a lamp on the entry table. Stumbling against uneven flooring, he found his way to it and flicked the switch. After a sputter of electricity – bloody wiring probably needed to be looked at – the light came on, reflecting gold against the old wood and plaster. "Ah, there we are, darling. Er, darling?"

She still stood at the threshold, arms folded, tapping her foot. "What’s wrong?" he asked. She toed a line in front of her – oh. Threshold. "Anya, you can’t be serious."

"It’s traditional. You want to uphold all the rituals, don’t you?" She leaned against the doorjamb.

"I believe the threshold ritual is for one’s own house, not one’s honeymoon cottage. And no, not that much."

"We own the place, don’t we? Which makes it our house too. Therefore, I need to be carried across." She beamed at him. "Any time now, honey."

He couldn’t argue with her logic. However, he would do this in his own time and his own way, especially after the torture she’d inflicted on him during the drive. He picked up the hamper and headed for the kitchen.

"Rupert.... Rupert!" she called after him.

After using his shoulder to flip the switch, he walked to the kitchen table. A vase of roses glowed red on the table – Gillian or Margaret must have put them there, a nice welcome-gift. Putting aside his instinctive shudder, and careful not to disturb the vase, he put down the kitchen hamper, flipped back the lid, and began to unload perishables into the refrigerator. It already had some pieces of fruit, some butter, a bottle of milk; Anya must have asked for some food to be left for them.

And his wife’s voice – God, he still couldn’t believe it, he’d been waiting so long – was pealing out. "Rupert Giles, what the hell are you doing?"

"My dearest, what is one of the most important things to know about vengeance?" he called to her. Just a couple more things to stow – and yes, good, the split of champagne was cold enough that he could take it with him.

He stopped for a breath and a look around the room: its stone and the wood, its doors to the world and to the cellar, its memories. When he glanced out the kitchen window, he saw that the row of yew trees still trapped the night-mist in their branches.

So many mornings, so many nights alone, looking at the mist. No more.

He wrapped his fist around the champagne split and headed back. When he saw Anya peering in, her hands braced on the doorjamb for balance, he had to grin. She, however, snapped, "You’re asking _me_ about vengeance? Well, the first thing is you never know where it’s going to strike, which better send a warning to you, mister."

"What else?" he said, standing just inches out of her reach.

"It comes back double."

"Ah. So, what do you think you should get for that little concert you gave in the car?"

Her sharp lines softened when she grinned. "Oh, _that_...honey, that was justice. I mean, I told you that I had to pee, and you just kept saying, ‘Ten more miles, fifteen more miles.’ It was painful, and annoying, and you needed to understand that."

"By singing Celine bloody Dion songs at the top of your lungs?"

"Well, the use of the French-Canadian songbird you loathe made my point, didn’t it? And I got the necessary bathroom–"

He leapt forward and snaked his free arm around her waist, then swung her across the threshold. Before she could protest, his mouth was on hers, stopping her words, enjoying her. It only took a second before she eased into him, her arms around his neck pulling him to her.

At which point he lifted his mouth and said, "There. Ritual satisfied, and I’ve avenged my pain."

She yanked at his hair, a sharp little tug. "The other thing about vengeance? It’s wrong, honey."

"True, but that was justice. And I think you’ll need to be punished further, darling." Another kiss, deeper, more serious. Softly: "Why don’t we go upstairs? Run a bath, wash off the dirt from our, er, picnic. Drink some champagne."

Her fingers drifted down his chest, dove to unsnap his jeans and then slip below to tease him. Despite the long drive and the afternoon shag, he was already half-hard. "Sounds like a great official start to the honeymoon," she whispered.

She ran to the staircase, then stopped on the bottom step and threw him a challenging look over her shoulder. She began to sing, loud and clear, "'Near, far, wherever you are, I believe that the heart does go on....'"

"Right, that’s it, wife. Prepare for punishment," he growled.

Laughing even as she kept singing, she went up the rest of the stairs. Smiling, he shut the door, locked it. He could get the suitcases later. Much later.

He took the stairs at a run.

***

The noise of their footsteps and laughter rolled throughout Swallow’s Nest, reaching through wood and stone inside and out, and dropping, muffled, into the cellar.

The man who’d sought refuge there shivered, his dreams troubled by the noise. The mist of nightmare changed the sounds; they were the crash of ocean waves, the drumming of loss and a gunshot.

He fell more deeply into dream, cold-water sleep closing over his head.


	2. Chapter 2

In the hidden room it always seemed like night. Griffin and Pennith slept on, spinning new skin, new life, with each breath. The fabric rippled over their bodies in a pattern only the Lady Yeangelt knew, caught in the light from the ever-burning black candles.

Standing in the doorway, Nalph watched them sleep. He was alone this morning. The Lady was away on an important errand with Master Hat’s most trusted lackey at her side; the enforcer himself was busy collecting a soul or two for the soon-to-be-acquired final storage place. Paddington was the target area today, Nalph believed – catch a tourist or two, or perhaps a human commuting from the further reaches of the river valley; drag them back so that the Lady could administer the potion and work the magick, capture essence in glass. With all of their work, the Rising Time was drawing closer.

He briefly considered taking the boium leaf he’d stolen and crumpling it into the flames over the bodies, incanting the reverse of the words he’d heard from Yeangelt. As the leaf disappeared into the fire, the silk would hiss into the sleepers’ skin; their own souls would be ready to be caught and used, their bodies burn away. Two of the Three could be so easily destroyed.

But he wasn’t sure it would stop the process, and he didn’t much like the ugly death that inevitably would follow. Besides, there were still plots to be laid and secrets to be kept. Even as London changed in ways surface and deep, some paths only Nalph knew.

When he crushed the boium leaf in his claws, its remnants disappeared into air. Maybe the fire would come later.

***

At the ringing of church bells over the hills, Giles startled out of dreamless sleep – assisted by a sharp little heel kicking against his calf and a whispered "Oh, that’s _sweet_."

"Darling?" he said, as he rolled blindly toward Anya, his hand going out to find silk and skin.

"Oops. Sorry, did I get you?"

"Mmm," he said in a noncommittal way, pulling her closer.

"Sorry. There was implied good sex in my book, and I must have over-identified."

"Um-hmm. Why the sodding hell are you reading at this hour?" he said, opening his eyes to diffuse grey light pouring through the window, to their bags heaped in the corner of the room, to rumpled blankets, to the torn scraps of her lingerie hanging on one of the bedposts. And there she was, throwing a bright smile over her shoulder at him. His heart expanded in a flurry of love and desire.

She turned onto her stomach, giving one more rather painful kick in the process, and then propped her book on her pillow and her chin on her hand. Her smile widened, heated. "I won’t read any more now that you’re awake. I couldn’t sleep – too happy, and then I had a weird dream, and the house was creaking strangely. But mostly too happy."

"Love you. But you should have woken me." His hands going to her face, he leaned up for a kiss. The fuzzy morning taste and the lingering traces of sex and sweat from the night before comforted him somehow. Made it real, even in the dream-like, cloudy morning.

"Mmm. Maybe I should have." She wriggled closer, her smile inches away. "So, according to my book, I should make sure you know who I am."

He squinted at the volume on her pillow – _Busman’s Honeymoon_. "You’re telling me that Dorothy Sayers is determining our honeymoon programme?" However, when she wrapped her finger in a curl of his chest hair and raised her eyebrows in an unmistakable dare, he added, "Er, right. You’re Anya, and you’re my wife."

"You passed that test beautifully, Rupert. Who is my husband." She slithered herself up and over him, with only a few harsh scrapes of nightshirt button on the way – he didn’t know when or why she’d put on the bloody thing. While he worked his fingers down so he could unbutton the shirt, she said, "I’m still not tired of saying it. How about you?"

"No. Don’t imagine I ever will be." After getting the last button, he lifted her so that the shirt could fall open around them both. As she lay back down, she did a little sea-wave, silk and skin and pressure from hip to shoulder, and his morning erection swelled a little more. He adjusted her to fit him – yes, that felt good, the hollow between her thigh and torso perfect – then let his hand drift down to cup her bottom. Cool, smooth...but he had to ask, "Any soreness?"

"Nope. A nice little tingle, that’s all. You did it just right; you’re winning the pleasure-moment race again." She sent her own fingers down his arm, tracing the vein. When her nails touched his tattoo – last time of it, he hoped, since they planned to have it taken care of today – he tried not to flinch. But she knew, and she soothed before tickling to his wrist. "Of course I should have expected you to be skilled at discipline, but that riding crop was nevertheless quite handy. Now I wonder what you’ve been up to with the witches."

"Ha. As I believe I mentioned, dearest, the crop is in fact for riding. However, since you asked so nicely and behaved so badly...."

"That’s my honey." A giggle and a soft kiss on his neck, another sea-wave that made his cock harden almost painfully. Pressing her into him, he closed his eyes and enjoyed – until she nipped his ear and said, "Now pay attention. According to my novel, you’re also supposed to recite a bit of a poem for me."

"And now you’ve gone completely mad."

"No, really. In the book Lord Peter Wimsey does it all the time, but especially on the first morning of his honeymoon."

"Um-hmm. Darling, have I ever recited poetry to you?"

"Well, no."

"Does anything about me indicate, er, a hidden passion for verse?"

"That would also be a No." She dug her chin into his shoulder until he yelped. "But come on, give it a try."

He tightened his grip on her. "Perhaps just this once. Um, yes. ’Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds....’ Er, something something something." Then he bucked her up and off, ignoring her happy shriek, and rolled until they were a tangle of bodies and bedclothes. His hips beginning a slow slide against her, he said, "Right, I’ve done quoting. Now you should recite something for me, I think."

After winding one arm around his neck and smiling in a rather alarming way, she sent her other hand down to find him. As her fist closed over his length and pulsed: "You think I won’t? You can have it in English or Arashmaharr."

"Christ, darling," he managed to get out.

"English, then. But I’ll have to translate from the demon as I go." Screwing up her face in concentration, she began to pump her hand, silk and perfect pressure surrounding him. "Let’s see– yep, got it. ‘There once was a husband named Giles....’"

***

Outside, Gilbert Place had been quiet, and Dawn kind of hoped it’d be the same inside. Responsibility was weighing heavy this morning; it wasn’t as much fun as she’d expected without the senior partners of Investigations and Acquisitions. And they had to deal with Willow too, who’d been quietly cranky since breakfast.

As she slipped the key into the door, she said, "Okay, Andrew, now."

After they awkwardly traded places, he outlined the door and muttered the spell. Then: "It’s a go."

With the wards taken care of, she opened the door and switched on the lights. The two big desks, the two smaller ones, the seating area for clients – everything looked fine. She let out a breath.

From behind them Willow said, "I guess you guys take security seriously?"

"Oh we have to," Andrew said. With a goofy bow and the smack of his very stupid briefcase (with its Council of Watchers stamp on its side), he pushed her and Willow into the office. As he followed, he added, "We’ve got important papers and artifacts here which need protection. Giles and Jenkins is stamping out nasty business, you know."

"Extraordinary crimes against the people and the state must be avenged by agents extraordinary," Dawn agreed. She went to her desk, where the file for the ghost-infested house in Hampstead Giles had investigated last week floated on top of her stack – she’d have to finish typing his report and send it out this morning, Anya had left the invoice instructions too – but first she fished around for the binder of the Xet/Yeangelt discoveries. "It’s not as gloom-and-doomy as lots of the Sunnydale stuff was, but there’s some serious badness. Like this, which Giles said you might want to look at."

Taking the binder but not opening it, Willow balanced on the edge of Giles’s desk. Looking around, she said, "For some reason I expected more of a dusty British library vibe here. I mean, the firm’s name and all seems kind of _Masterpiece Theatre_."

"No. Plants for Anya, books for Giles, the framed London maps as a compromise for the artwork," Andrew said, turning on his computer on his way into the conference room.

"Yeah, though we’ve put the maps for demon sightings and haunts back here in our area. Shouldn’t scare the mundanes, you know?" Dawn said. "Here, let me show you where to start."

She leaned over and found the first important page in the binder. Using that poor dead almost-Watcher’s files and what Giles had since found in an archive in the Cambridge University library system, a collection of British prophecies and oddities the Watchers sometimes had used, they’d discovered that the first written reference to the Xet didn’t occur until 1667. That mention in a private letter also had said that there had been "Xet travellers" since at least Roman times. Anya had since called on a couple of contacts, who said that nobody talked much about the travellers any more – but when they did, it was kind of unpleasant, with powerful magicks and cold and demons who explored the multiverse. There was a whole lot of nothing about what happened when the travellers got there, except it was super-bad.

There also was a whole lot of nothing about why souls and demon spirits were being taken, although MI5 and Scotland Yard finally had compared notes on all the weird outbreaks of insanity and missing persons and stuff – which reminded Dawn that she needed to call Zoe and make the regular report that afternoon. Maybe Giles and Anya would have called with news from the coven, especially since Anya had found and taken the special scrying mirror requested by the seer-chick. Should be some hardcore divination going on in the next day or two.

Willow was still staring at the page and frowning when Andrew’s computer finished booting up, the theme from Star Wars trumpeting just as he came back out of the conference room. It was like he’d planned his entrance, which Dawn wouldn’t put past him. "Coffee’s on, Willow, and we have a variety of flavourings," he announced. Then he sat down at his desk, cracking his knuckles. "Got some email to check, ladies. Send good thoughts into the multiverse for me."

"Oh, I forgot. The Nri-encrusted vessel for the hoppy business frog of darkness," Dawn said, sitting down at her own desk and turning on her own computer. One cool thing – without Giles there to grumble, she could play Virgin Radio as loud as she wanted while she worked.

But Willow was saying, " _Nri-encrusted_? _Hoppy business frog_?"

"A rare cup for prosperity magicks, only three ever reported seen in this dimension, one of which is already with Nalph the Mikh evil-merchant demon – who does hop," Andrew said. "We’re currently working a lead in Prague; Spike gave us the name of a sorcerer-guy."

The binder almost slipped out of Willow’s hands, her Birkenstocks thumping against the side of the desk. "Spike? You guys talk to Spike?"

"Sure. Be careful with the binder, we worked hard to compile that," Dawn said, after which she stomped on the little voice in her head that told her she sounded an awful lot like Giles. Well, Junior Watcher here, it couldn’t be helped.

Andrew said, "In fact, as I check my inbox, even now I see an email from our heroic bleached Cham–"

"–Don’t finish that word!" Dawn snapped. "You know it makes him go all psycho soul vamp. Just don’t even put it out into the world, ‘kay?" Which made Andrew blush and look down. He really hated the idea of upsetting Spike, what with the giant crush visible from outer space and all.

Willow cut off the discussion with a hand-gesture. "Okay, okay, time-out. Buffy doesn’t even really talk to Spike, but you guys, I mean, even Giles is cool with him?"

"Well, yeah," Andrew said. "Especially since Spike and Wesley Wyndam-Pryce are about to make the big move east. First vampire in the Council since–"

"1703," Dawn finished with him, grinning. They’d both aced that quiz.

He continued, "You know about that, right, Willow?"

"And anyway, what’s wrong with big sister and her silent treatment toward man and vampire? Is she, like, having a breakdown or something?" Dawn asked. For Giles’s sake she was still a little pissed off that Buffy couldn’t have got it together to come to the wedding; she knew how much it hurt him.

She could relate to the whole hurt thing for her own sake, actually.

Willow was staring at her own green-socked toes. "I think she might be, Dawnie. I’m really worried about her."

Remembering the brave yet plastic smile Buffy had worn when she’d put her on the plane to England, Dawn felt a sudden pang. Maybe it was partly her fault –

But Andrew said, "Come on, she’s the Queen Slayer! She’s not tied to a hellmouth any more, she’s got money now and respect and an army of less powerful Slayers to lead, she’s got the support system of the New Council. What could be wrong?"

Willow smacked the binder on the desk. "Look, it’s not that easy for us back there. You guys might have fallen into the pretty-picture life, living with the patriarch and yeah, even Anya, with the cool jobs and the safe space and the whole London thing, but it’s been really hard for us who’ve been left behind. It’s just not...home. And I know only we can make it home, but we’re doing a really terrible job of it." The last words came out in a whisper, as if she’d surprised herself. "A really, really terrible job."

After Dawn and Andrew exchanged looks, she went over to give Willow a hug, a one-armed pull of reassurance. "I’m sorry."

"Yes, um, sorry," Andrew said quietly, before turning back to his computer.

Wishing Giles and Anya would come back and relieve her of this responsibility, Dawn held onto Willow while the keyboard clacked on, while the anger and power steaming under Willow’s surface dissolved into air.

***

After tugging on his tie unnecessarily, Xander sipped at his bad coffee and looked around at the Holborn office of Markby and Markby. All around there were walls of ancient Giles-ish books behind glass, words trapped in cases, captured laws and rules. But no problem. He could do this, yessir. It’d be easy.

God, he had no idea what he was doing.

From the outer office came the high-pitched, coughing whine of Amelia Markby; she was Robson’s cousin, and the current head of the firm of solicitors who’d acted for the Watchers for two centuries. Six foot tall and scary-thin in tweed, she’d peered accusingly at Xander when he’d arrived at the office at nine. "Welcome, Mr. Harris," she’d said, her voice hoarse. After putting her hand to her throat, she scratched out, "Pardon my cold. But, as I said, welcome despite the irregularity."

"The what?"

"The irregularity. As I told Mark when I contacted him, the seller shouldn’t really be involved at this juncture. It’s completely out of the common way, I have no idea what the buyer wants."

"Well, hey, I’ve been in Cleveland. Not much with the reading of English people’s minds." Which he could have put better, actually. Ignoring a nasty stomach-flop, like he’d been pushed off the high dive before he was ready, he’d said, "I know the history of the site and the specs, if that’s what they want. And, um, who are ‘they’ again?"

"Mrs. Douglas Pennyworth. She represents a consortium of some kind; the money and credentials check out, which is what you need to know." Ms. Markby had almost smiled. "Sit here and wait, Mr. Harris. I’ll bring her in when she arrives."

Once more he felt a weird sort of time-lag. For a second he was out of place and adrift – in Cleveland drinking coffee before getting on the plane; then, in Seat 38J in a darkened cabin, sipping from a tiny white cup while he studied the files of distant past and recent past, Watchers dead and gone, so he didn’t have to think about a woman he used to love and an ex-Watcher he hadn’t really known.

Coffee. Stomach-ache. Here, now, in London. As he put his feet down metaphorically speaking, he literally knocked the cup over. Although he grabbed it before too much damage was done, tepid coffee spilled over his fingers.

"Mr. Harris?" a soft female voice said from the doorway.

"Um, yes. Sort of. Hi!" Faking a cool that couldn’t have been more millions of miles away from his reality, he stood and smiled and unobtrusively wiped his fingers on his Dockers.

The older woman in the doorway – small, silver-haired, but with a bizarre luminous edge – extended her hand, lady to servant. Behind her a grey, shadowy man hovered, as if holding her non-existent train. When Xander took her hand, her grip was almost like a claw.

Sliding around the shadow-guy, Amelia Markby said, "Yes. Xander Harris – Mrs. Pennyworth, and her associate Mr. Garrison."

Mrs. Pennyworth’s grip tightened to the point of pain. He could see blood-spots on her hand and wrist, although they looked more like needle-marks than age."Are you sure you’re a Watcher?" she said sharply. "The point of this interview was to speak to a Watcher."

"Um, I have handled a Slayer or two in my time...." Coughing away a sudden image of Faith naked above him, her fingers on his chest as she rode, he said more firmly, "Yes. I’m a member of the Council of Watchers. Facilities administrator." He managed not to stumble on the title Robson had just given him. "As I’m sure Ms Markby or your real-estate agent told you when you first looked at the site, there was an explosion last year – although we’re sure it’s safe now – and all the Watchers are pretty much new. Different."

"Ah." The woman finally smiled and let him go. "The lost are replaced by the new and different. As it should be." When she moved, her hair shimmered; he found himself thinking of grey silk, but patchwork, with black threads. That strange light weakened, replaced by the flash from her dangling earrings, heavy black stone in a twisted symbol he’d never seen before. "Shall we talk about the site?"

Pushed off the high dive, twisting in mid-air.

***

"I was _what_ in your dream?" Rupert said from the top of the stairs, halted in the middle of putting on his sweatshirt.

Anya thought he should finish dressing, since he was still a bit damp from their bath and she didn’t want him to catch a cold, but there was no use in saying it. Anyway: "Did the good-morning sex make you deaf? I said you were a musical pirate."

"Oh for fuck’s sake."

"It was just a dream, Rupert. I don’t actually expect you to sing me a sea-shanty – although dream-you did so very nicely, while waving an extremely long sword." Lighter in hand, she leaned over the pillars she’d just set up on the entryway table. She’d forgotten to do the candles the night before, being otherwise busy with love, lust, and the enjoyable marital exchange of vengeance, but the important ceremony shouldn’t be put off any longer.

"Hang on, I’ll help," he said, pulling his sweatshirt over his head and then thudding barefoot down the stairs.

After he stood behind her, his hand covering hers, together they touched small blue flame to the first wick. "Love," he said. Together they lit the second candle. "Safety," she said.

Once the wish-fires lit the entry, she rested her head against his chest, listening to his heart beat. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to explain how much it meant that he would do this with her, even though she was fairly sure he didn’t believe in the power of good wishes.

Dropping one arm over her shoulders, he steered her in the general direction of the kitchen. "We’ve got a couple of hours before we need to go to Tor House. What shall we do before then, besides have breakfast?"

"Oh come on, honey, it’s obvious. Food and caffeine are most important, but then we should explore our house!"

A look she couldn’t quite pin down, mixed-up pride and pain and Rupert-reserve, crossed his face, but all he said was "Yes, _our_ house, darling."

For the first time she actually had a chance to look at the downstairs. She knew that Swallow’s Nest had been built in the sixteenth century, and the Giles family had acquired it at the end of Victoria’s reign; Rupert’s father David had modernised it in between his Watcher duties, bringing in the all-important electric and phone and good plumbing. The rooms were small, low-beamed, cluttered with old furniture, and a little dark even with white-washed walls. Draughty, too.

With a pang she found herself remembering time long gone, a cold cottage in another country. She could almost hear her mother shouting at her, feel the rabbit-fur against her skin–

"Are you all right? You’ve gone a bit quiet." His arm curved, bringing her into his warmth. She must have shivered.

Forcing herself to smile, she captured his hand. "You bet. Fine and happy." Nothing, especially not inconvenient flashbacks to eleven thousand years and several lives ago, was going to ruin her perfect honeymoon with him. Serenity right the hell now, she told herself.

The sight of the kitchen helped. There were two shut doors, one to the world outside, one which must be to the cellar. Two windows let in the grey morning, revealing a stone floor, and also wooden beams and white-washed plaster which could use a paint effect or two. Copper pots and pans hung against one wall; a few modern appliances shone on the counter top.

The big Fortnum’s hamper sent by Jools Siviter was open on the table, next to a lovely vase of roses. She said, "Didn’t you unpack that last night when you left me outside in your fairly inefficient act of vengeance?"

"Seemed to work at the time, darling. And I did perishables only. Some muffins are still in there, I think, and I’ll start the tea." After passing his hand over her hair, he went over to the kettle.

When he left her, she shivered again. For some reason she remembered those weird noises in the night, creaks and a sound like a door rattling in the wind. Even as she began to search the hamper for the good stuff, she said, "So, um, honey, I probably should have asked before – we don’t have ghosts or anything at Swallow’s Nest, do we?"

His voice was hard to hear over the running tap. "Not real ones, no." He turned to put the kettle on.

"Excuse me?" She got the bread-like goods and carefully placed them beside the roses. "How do you define ‘real’?"

He came over and started digging around for the tea. Head down, he said, "No ghosts that you can see or hear, dearest. Don’t worry."

"That doesn’t sound right somehow. What–"

But he put a hand on her arm, saying underneath his breath, "Quiet. Don’t move." It was his spy-voice.

Silently he went around the table. When she turned around, she saw he was heading for one of the doors, the one to the cellar.

The one opening on its own.

What happened next was fuzzy to her, maybe because the kettle started screaming at that point. A tall, dark-haired stranger came menacingly out of the black nowhere; Rupert did something impressively violent and espionage-trained which resulted in the man’s arms being pinned behind him, but then stopped and said in a shocked voice, "Tom?"

And the stranger slammed Rupert against the wall – she could feel the impact, feel his pain. The kettle got louder.

Wincing, Rupert held out his hand. "Calm down, old son."

"I’m not....You’re supposed to be dead!" The man stumbled back a step. She thought he looked shut down, locked tight against the world, but the door was rattling. "I don’t know – I don’t remember–"

"Tom," Rupert said again, over the kettle-scream.

"I don’t know who Tom is. But...but I saw you die. I saw you." Then he leapt, his hands going towards Rupert’s neck. When Rupert blocked that, he smashed an elbow into her husband’s stomach, a blow she knew had to hurt like hell.

Which at last made her wake up. Two steps, and one of the pots was in her hands; three big steps, and the kitchen rang with the collision of metal and stranger’s head. Groaning, he sank to his knees.

The kettle went silent. The fail-safe to ensure it didn’t boil dry had worked, she thought numbly.

As Rupert managed to kick the stranger against the table, she grabbed the vase of roses so they wouldn’t break, so she could break them herself over the man’s head if necessary. But he collapsed all the way onto the floor, arms over his head, saying, "You’re not supposed to be here. You’re a traitor. You’re dead."

Coughing, Rupert bent down. "Steady on, Tom."

"I don’t know...why do you keep calling me that name? I don’t know that name." For just an instant he seemed to crumple, before the cold, locked face came back. More steadily he said, "Siobhan, Gillian... they didn’t say to expect visitors. But maybe ghosts are usual guests for witches."

"We own the cottage, mister. The coven just leases it," Anya said. "And we weren’t informed about a homicidal maniac being the witches’ guest, either."

"Anya, perhaps we should have tried harder to ring them yesterday." Nobly attempting but failing to stifle a groan, he stood back up, looming over the man on the floor. For some crazy-person reason the man’s hands went to his own throat as if he were choking. Despite his obvious anger Rupert said kindly, " It’s all right. We’ll call them, sort this out. I’m Rupert Giles, remember, you’ve met me several times."

The man curled in on himself, not responding. But suddenly the repetition of the name made sense to her. "Oh my God, that’s Tom Quinn! Zoe and Danny’s missing Tom!"

"Yes. And, er, wonderfully effective attack work, darling, thank you, but you can put the vase down now." Rupert came to her, helped her set down the roses. She didn’t realise that she was shaking until his big hands closed over hers. "Are you all right?"

"Honey, for God’s sake, I’m not the one who got slugged." She pressed against him, mindful of potential injuries. "Are you all right?"

"I’m fine," he said in his usual soldiering-on-in-spite-of-agony way. "Could you ring the main house – the phone’s in the lounge – and ask them why the fucking hell he was in our cellar?"

"Okay." When she looked back down, the Tom-person still had his face covered. "You know, I didn’t expect him to be quite so lurky or potentially murderous."

"Something’s certainly wrong. But we’ll find out what," he said.

"I’m not happy about leaving you in here alone with a crazy person, you know. And I’m damn sick of people trying to kill you or beat you up every other week," she said sharply.

"Anya, please. Just make the call."

"All right, Rupert. But we’re going to have to talk about this." She let him go and started for the phone.

The candles were still burning in the entryway as she passed. Hers hadn’t done its work, she thought.

***

The door to Investigations and Acquisitions flew open. "Found it at last! Man, could you people make it any harder to locate your offices? I almost wound up in the British Museum, stamped, tagged and filed, before anyone could have missed me!" Xander announced.

Andrew looked up from his computer screen. Gorgeous, troubled, business-attired Xander, standing in the nicely appointed client area of Giles and Jenkins – it was like the beginning of one of his most secret fantasies. Since the...badness, however, he always made himself remember what was real. They were fellow Watcher-guys, not quite friends: that was all. He said pleasantly, "Hello, Xander. Were my directions messed up?"

"Not the directions’ fault, but jet-lag and the utter weirdness of London." A half-smile. "So, where are the fair maidens, and what’re you doing on your own?"

Andrew pushed his chair back. "Willow and Dawn went around the corner to purchase our lunch from the kindly sandwich-maker Mr Takicopoulos. We thought we could go eat our take-away food in Bloomsbury Square? Because Willow was lecturing about Virginia Woolf and rooms of one’s own and lighthouses and stuff – anyway, we don’t really have a choice. I stayed behind because I’m waiting for an important email for Acquisitions." He glanced back at the monitor; nothing yet, which he knew anyway, since he’d set it to play the main title theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark whenever mail arrived.

"Acquisitions, huh. So you work with Anya?"

"Yes, I’m her assistant, just like Dawn is Giles’s. They’re both Watcher internships, though, and we switch off sometimes. Anya doesn’t mind." Looking down, Andrew rearranged his desk decorations – postcards of Jennifer Garner and Patrick McGoohan as the Prisoner which he’d bought at the Cinema Store – so that he wouldn’t embarrass himself or Xander any further. It was so difficult to know what to say, what wouldn’t break poor Xander’s heart more about his loss of the perfect woman.

Not that Xander seemed all that broken up at the moment. "I’m surprised she’d be cool with sharing. Must be part of the new thing." When he wandered over to perch on Giles’s desk, he picked up the large framed photo – Giles and Anya lounging against a picnic basket on Hampstead Heath, smiling at each other– and stared at it for a minute. Then he put it away and said, "So, how’s life in England for you, young Padawan?"

"Great," Andrew said cautiously, thinking of Willow’s flicker of Dark Goddess-ness that morning. "We, Dawn and I, we do miss our fellow apocalypse-survivors." Like you, he silently added. "But I’m happier here. Dawn is too."

"That’s what I was getting. Good to know – I’ll be sure to tell Buffy."

"Um, and how are _you_? In Cleveland, I mean. and with your Slayer... I mean, Slayers, plural, not just fierce dark-haired beauties in leather –"

"Okay, Andrew." Xander pushed off the desk with an impatient gesture, as if his emotions were too big for his body.

Searching for a safer topic, Andrew said, "Sorry. Is being Facilities Administrator enjoyable?"

"Tell you the truth, most of the time I’d rather be dry-walling." He grinned, not a Xander-special but close to it. "I mean, I had a good morning today. Answered some bizarre old Englishwoman’s questions, got a purchase agreement with a lease for immediate occupancy, but somehow I just wanted to hop on the Millennium Falcon and hyperspace out of there to the nearest construction site."

"You probably wouldn’t need the hyperdrive for that," Andrew said seriously. When Xander laughed, he added, " If you really want a trowel in your hand, you can always check out my and Dawn’s space. The builders were supposed to be here last week to finish the plastering, but so far, nothing. I mean, if you’re bored – I do also have a nice selection of comics and DVDs–"

"Thanks, I might take the trowel." And that was a Xander-special grin. "Nice hyperdrive move there yourself, Chewie."

Andrew would have blurted out something embarrassing about the special relationship between a pilot and his Wookiee, but at that moment the outer door slammed, bringing Willow’s voice in mid-sentence, "–not tell? There was something nearby watching us, Dawn."

"Whatever. Didn’t feel it, but if you say so, there is," Dawn’s voice replied. Xander got up just in time to open the door, revealing the two with their arms full of food packets. Dawn smiled up at him. "Thanks, big guy! Ready for lunch? How ‘bout you, Andrew?"

At which point the Raiders theme blasted out of his computer speakers. When he clicked on his message, he smiled himself. "No, you guys go on. I’ve got to make arrangements for a cup to be overnighted here, for special delivery for an evil Mikh merchant. Investigations and Acquisitions comes through again!"

***

Anya took another squishy step up the hill. The field in which they walked featured a cold wind, low clouds, grass and rocks, and a lot of mud. A lot of mud, much of it now adhering to her boots.

"Is this our land, or is it the coven’s?" she said.

With those pain-lines still around his eyes, Rupert shifted his hold on the scrying mirror he carried and managed a smile. "Ours. The coven’s property begins just over that stone wall."

"And Tor House is just beyond, right?"

"Er, perhaps a bit further than that."

"Rupert, you’re such a strategist. You misrepresented the walking distance for some sneaky purpose of your own," she said. "It’s not your Range-Rover campaign again, is it?"

"Well, I don’t see why I can’t have one, it’d be practical if we’re to spend more time in the country," he said. "But no, I just wanted to walk. The coven really isn’t that far, darling, stop complaining."

"Pathetic gas mileage and high cost of insurance in the city mean you can’t have your enormous status vehicle, as you very well know. And I’m not complaining, I’m just asking. Still –" she paused, looking him over. Even though he walked with his usual long stride, his posture was stiff like his back hurt him. That slam against the kitchen wall had done him no favours. "Don’t you think driving would have been more sensible, as you were attacked and now ache all over?"

"No." Mouth going tight, he sped up, as if he could out-walk the pain he was trying to deny.

Despite mud obstacles, she hurried to catch up. "If you’re hurting too much, Gillian and Michael and Margaret won’t fix your tattoo today."

"I’m fine, Anya. They’ll be able to alter it if they’re not otherwise busy. Bit worried about their reaction to Tom actually, might be hard to get their attention." He glanced over at her. "I’ll make sure you get your mark of protection in any case, which is more important."

"Oh for God’s sake. Have you no sense of self-preservation?" she said. But they were at the wall by then, which cut off the lecture she was planning; instead, she grabbed the mirror out of his hands so he could climb over first.

He didn’t move with his usual easy competence – a grunt of pain as he lifted himself over, a slip of his hand on the crumbling stone, more pain-noise when he landed. She cradled the mirror closer and watched him hurt. She hated to watch him hurt. Something would have to be done.

Holding out his hand over the barrier, he said, "Give me that, then I’ll help you over."

She held the mirror tighter, refusing to give it back. "Honey, I can’t stand to see you like this."

"Like what?" The wind tousled his hair, bruising colour into his face as his hand dropped. He was so strong, so stubborn, so...hers, staring at her, mouth still tight. Temper was in the mix now, though.

This morning he’d looked just that wounded and furious, standing over Tom Quinn. The sight had fired her own anger, which grew when she got Margaret the healer on the line. The woman hadn’t seemed to care at all that the amnesiac spy had tried to injure Rupert. Instead she’d all but screamed, "Matthew’s come back? You know his real name? That’s wonderful, we can help him now!" In less than fifteen minutes Margaret and Siobhan had been at the door to wrap him up, fuss over him, and take him back to the coven. Some people had their priorities all wrong.

Anya Christina Emmanuella Jenkins Giles, however, was not one of those people. She protected her own. And she said, "Rupert, promise me you’ll stop being a spy. After we settle the Xet problem, anyway."

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"Spying isn’t good for you. I mean, since we came to England you’ve been sliced at, punched, threatened, hit again, had bad magick jabbed into your arm and then been put into a brief coma by more bad magick, and then today been attacked by an insane missing agent who’s ostensibly on our side. Do you see a disturbing pattern here?"

"Accidents happen, Anya."

"Not that many! It’s the espionage work – this never happened when you were in Sunnydale."

"Even as the not particularly successful Watcher of a Slayer, I still had my share of injuries," he said, his words almost swallowed by the wind. "And the MI5 work isn’t usually as, er, event-filled as it’s been this summer."

"It’s still not _safe_. And by the way, you’re still and always a Watcher, and you know you did great with Buffy, ungrateful though she is."

"No, I’m not, and I didn’t. But never mind." Gazing down the hill, his profile sharp against the lightening afternoon sky, he looked sad all of a sudden. Tired, too, like last winter. "I don’t understand what started this– Christ, Anya, you’re a spy because of me. You’ve seemed happy enough to play Tommy and Tuppence."

"But it’s not play, you idiot, it’s real!" she said, the anger and worry she’d been smothering for months roaring out of nowhere. "You’ve been saving the world forever, and you should get to quit now, especially as you have a responsibility to me – to your wife – to stay sane and alive. We’ve got crazy Wes and now crazy Tom Quinn to worry about, there are dead people in the Thames and there’s demons and mysterious people who seem to want you dead too. I can’t watch that happen. Apparently you don’t care anything about my feelings if you just–"

But her words and her rage died when she saw his eyes. Oh God, she’d done this all wrong, hit his guilt too hard, made him hurt worse. He said quietly, "I do care. I care very much."

"Oh, honey, I take it back, I take it all back." Handling the mirror carefully – it would be more than bad luck if she let out the spirits that gave it its power – she reached out to him. "Help me over, please."

He took the mirror first, laid it on a patch of grass, then held out his hand. "Here."

Holding onto him tightly, she clambered over the rough stone. Almost scraped her knee in the process, did scrape her palm; the wall was higher for her than for him. As soon as she was on the other side, she pulled out of the mud and threw her arms around his middle. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

"I don’t quite know what you’re apologising for." There at last came his arms around her in return, comforting despite the chill in his voice and the painful stiffness in his body. That new ache was her fault.

"Now that I’ve found you, I need you with me, Rupert," she said against his jacket. He smelled of smoke and limes and Devon, and his heart thumped away under her cheek. She tightened her grip on him. "But I shouldn’t yell at you, don’t let me yell at you. That promise I asked you to make – it’s not fair."

Even as close as she was, she could barely hear him. "Do you really want me to resign?"

This was possibly the stupidest question he had ever asked her. But after silently repeating to herself ‘Different, better choices’ several times, she said, "Not relevant. What do you want, honey? What do you think is right? That’s what you choose."

Silent, his arms binding her closer, he buried his mouth in her hair.

She shifted in his hold so that her lips were over his heart, and she made another wish. It would have to do.

***

From outside Nalph’s office came the shriek of a man losing his soul. At the long, high anguish, his private stock of magicks shuddered in their glass jars along the walls, the occasional spark or pop from the ones most affected. It seemed Master Hat was enjoying himself this afternoon, finishing the job the Lady Yeangelt had begun.

Nalph shifted the lantern closer, shuffling the papers into the brighter light, attempting to concentrate on his inventory for the next week. When one long blue claw snagged on the contact information he’d found for a vendor who carried Noothian canusses, he growled in frustration. Despite his attempts to stall the others, he’d have to place an order now. He’d have to hope it was too late for the boium tree. Have to hope that he had enough to pay for the expensive crushed bones.

His gaze flicked to the Nri-encrusted vessel – useless now, its magicks drained – resting on the file cabinet, half-hidden by more Ihioo skulls. He needed the second cup he’d ordered, but at this moment it would be dangerous to collect it, even if Investigations and Acquisitions found one.

Outside the shriek burst – the final loss – and then the door opened. Yeangelt, smiling, still in her human clothing, stood on the threshold. "Ah, Mikh Lord, may I come in?"

"London is yours, my Lady. My office is yours," he said, hopping up to offer her the best chair.

"London is not ours yet." Her correction seemed gentle enough, but he could feel the burn of her words, like fire-seams in his skin. She sat down, then shot her hand out to grasp his wrist. More burn – he knew the mark would linger for hours in pinpricks of blood. "And it will be ours, will it not?"

"I am not one of the Three, nor do I aspire to be. I only serve you and the two you heal." Out of sight his claws contracted, as if he still had the stolen boium leaf to crush.

"Because you’ll profit when the Rising Time comes, and for years after. The Terminal will make the Mysterious Emporium more than it ever has been. I know what drives you, Nalph."

"Of course you do, my Lady." Of course she didn’t; the creature couldn’t read minds or see the future, which was a good thing for a Mikh finding his own way. Smiling, he said, "And was your meeting with the Council of Watchers representative successful?"

Her hand tightened until blue scales crumbled underneath her hold. "It was. We have our storage room, and you shall have your space back. But –" When her grey hair touched his claws, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold back his own cry at the stab of those needle-strands. "–That young Harris creature was not the Watcher I’d seen, the one I seek. He had some of the touch, but not enough. New, he said." The word was a blow. "But I have set Garrison to follow him."

"Yes, my Lady?"

"Yes, Nalph. The new Watcher was headed toward Bloomsbury when I left them, past the lovely bomb site, and I anticipate a lead on our Beresfords. The new must still have ties to the old, wouldn’t you say?" She let him go.

"You are of course correct. New must have ties to old." Nalph hopped back to his desk, thinking hard. Giles and Jenkins had their office not very far away from there – he did hope that this boy wasn’t part of Rupert and Anya’s team, it wouldn’t be convenient to have Investigations and Acquisitions found. Still, secondary plans should be made, and as a distraction: "Speaking of which, I’ve found a source for the Noothian canusses. The delivery should arrive within a day or two."

"So you _are_ trying to fulfill your task." The Lady ran the fingers of one hand over the other, skin hissing like her dear Pennith’s pathetic attempts at thought. "Master Hat is wrong, then? You do support our cause?"

"With all due respect to Master Hat, I do not follow him. I support you, my Lady."

"And the lack of success finding the acquisitions specialist? The many obstructions you have been finding in our way?" she said softly.

"I’ve been removing the problems when I can. Seeking ways around them when I can’t." He tapped on his stack of papers. "For instance, I have found the Noothian canusses which Master Hat neglected to get in his rush to...execution. The tree should be tended to within a few days."

"That is an excellent point, and excellent news." Gaze trained on his, she leaned forward. "But what of the Cup, my Nalph? What about that?"

"I don’t know where it is." And that wasn’t a lie; he’d been searching for himself, but there was no record anywhere of the Cup’s location. Perhaps it had disappeared into the mists of time, the gaps between worlds. "My Lady, I believed you no longer required it."

"If I can’t have it, no one else should." Something voracious lay behind her words, the way she lifted her hands and sewed a stitch in the air, but he couldn’t quite tell what. If he blinked, he could see black thread in her hands, even though he knew it wasn’t really there. But then she settled back in her seat, her hands falling into her lap. "You’re right, however. The Council location is crucial to us, in addition to the Brixton and Waterloo sites we must reclaim – by acquiring that we shan’t need the Cup now. But we’ll learn that tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

Before she could reply, a perfunctory knock on the door signalled the arrival of Master Hat. Nalph dispassionately noted the blood on the demon’s gloves; spirit-stealing didn’t require bloodshed, as Cassa Dreams, Pennith, and Griffin had proven in their more productive efforts, but the enforcer craved the tang of violence. "Two more completed and in glass for your Ladyship. The bodies shall be removed immediately," he said, sweeping into the office without permission.

"Thank you, Master Hat. Join us; we were discussing tomorrow’s activities." Her hands moved again in a pattern Nalph couldn’t read. "I have contacted a local demon-mage for consultation. I believe you know him, Nalph, his name is Cluth the Gifted?"

The babbling fool, who knew too much – he felt a weight at the back of his neck, like a club striking on his nerves, but he said calmly, "Yes, he occasionally trades with me."

"He’s part human, unfortunately," Master Hat said, examining his gloves. The drying blood gleamed in the lantern-light.

"Yes, but we can overlook that, as I’ve done with Griffin. I understand Cluth has recently obtained a powerful scrying mirror not of this dimension, which attracts me. I’ve asked him to come tomorrow to do a reading for us, see what he can add to our knowledge of the Rising Time. And perhaps we can discover the source for his mirror as well, don’t you think? He could be useful in so many ways."

Even as he began to plan for this hugely unwelcome development, Nalph returned the sorceress-bitch’s smile. "Very useful indeed, my Lady."

***

"Tomorrow," Giles repeated, repressing a cold, dark surge of anger. "You’re telling us we can get neither divination nor defense until tomorrow."

Gillian Harkness shook her head. "I’m sorry, but it’s your own fault, Giles. We’ve been so worried about our poor missing Matthew – Tom, I mean – and the energies of Tor House are devoted to him at the moment. Had you not found him–"

"More accurately, had he not jumped out and damn well attacked Rupert, saying stupid things about death and traitors," Anya interrupted. "And if you were so worried, why didn’t you ever tell us that you were keeping a crazy person in the cellar of our house?"

"I’ve told you. He disappeared a few days ago; we were looking for him." Gillian sent Anya a level stare.

That look was guaranteed to irritate his wife, he thought with only the smallest mental check at the word. The sad tale he and Anya had been told--the man washed up at the very doorstep of the small coven in Walton-on-the-Naze, his head injury, and the subsequent days at Swallow’s Nest– had not placated her annoyance, either. Putting his arm around her, despite the ache in his back muscles at the movement, he said, "You have to understand, Gillian, that we’re not happy to have him burst into our kitchen, regardless of your excellent reasons for housing him for the past months. We’re not happy about the delay in getting the help we need."

"The services we contracted for," Anya took it further. "We’re paying to stay in our own house but we did not agree to have a crazy spy in the cellar. More important, you people said you’d help us with possible apocalypse and personal protection. So–"

"We will," Gillian said. "I told you Catriona got in late from Scotland; she’s purifying herself for the scrying session tomorrow. Michael will be back tomorrow to aid in the ritual for your new tattoos. Everything’s in train." She stepped closer to them, her steps loud in the hall, raising her hands in a way he didn’t want to think was threatening. "I would think that you two would feel some kind of kinship with Tom. You do the same dirty job, isn’t it?"

Giles looked away. Older than Swallow’s Nest, the hall of Tor House was dark, stone-edged, almost a cavern. He could feel the earth-chill in his bones here. He could still hear Anya’s voice ringing in his mind – her _Apparently you don’t care_ a painful echo of his father standing in their field after the Eyghon horror, saying the same words but telling him to go back to what he hated. Here in the dark, old and new responsibilities were knotted beyond hope of untangling. "Yes, same dirty job," he repeated.

Anya reached up and caught his hand. "It’s okay, honey," she whispered.

Glancing at her, he tried to smile. "Well, then. Seems as if it can’t be helped, Gillian. If you’ll call us when–"

"Actually, you’re needed here, now." Gillian’s hands dropped to her side. "We can tell him who he is, but he doesn’t know. You have the skills to induce a trance, to reach him and bring him back. You’re a Watcher, after all; I know you have the voice."

"Dear Lord, it’s been years, and I don’t know how to reach someone in a fugue-state!" he said. More anger to be pushed down, a wave of it. "He had a bloody head injury on top of stress; this is likely neurological, not mystical. His colleagues Danny and Zoe are coming tomorrow to pick him up, get him to a proper doctor. We shouldn’t risk any further damage. Besides, we’ve told him his true name."

But Gillian just looked at him. From somewhere down the hall he could hear the healer Margaret’s voice, soothing, the hum sinking into stone. "–soon as you remember, it’ll be all right."

As if memory would make anything all right, he thought. Nothing but interrogation and the same dirty job waited for poor Tom.

There was no arguing with the witches, however. Before he could protest further or speak privately to Anya, whose arms now seemed permanently folded against her chest in defiance, they found themselves in a small, warm room off the kitchen. The witches were in control now.

It took only a few minutes to prepare the space. Candles and bowls of herbs burned underneath the shuttered window; Margaret and Gillian, hovering nearby, whispered the magicks to make the room safe, clear the mind, to call up the past. Thin, sharp smoke twisted around them and around Anya, who took the chair next to his.

And the smoke touched Tom Quinn, pale and battered, sitting across from him. Although his hands lay empty and open on his knees, his face was closed, defended. Giles realised with a start that the expression was a match for one of his own.

No time to think of painful echoes or distorted reflections, no time to do a lengthy induction. After a moment to breathe in and out and centre himself, he brought up the voice he’d been taught: slow, deep, even. He could feel the vibrations in his own chest. "All right now. You’re protected here, it’s a refuge. You can return when you’re ready."

Tom’s mouth didn’t smile, precisely, but it softened. He nodded to Giles, relaxing his hands further. "Let’s go."

Giles reached into his jacket, where he’d placed his father’s pocket watch that morning, as he did every morning. He’d learnt this technique neither at the Watcher’s Academy, nor at Oxford, but from his father: the exercises in the kitchen at Swallow’s Nest, the tick of the watch, the swing of the pendulum, the light from the candles.

There were ghosts that he couldn’t let himself see in the smoke.

Using the voice, he said, "Look at the watch. Remember, you’ll be safe. Look at the time. We’re going to go back now; I’ll count it down for you."

The gold watch swung anti-clockwise, flashing in the candlelight, and on each spin he made sure the clock-face turned to Tom. Couldn’t afford visualisation, since someone as well-fortified as an MI5 agent would be able to fight that. He’d have to rely on his voice, the smoke, and time itself.

He began to count, slow, deep, even. Tom’s gaze stayed on the watch, his head nodding down at each number. Slow, deep, even. At number six, Giles could see Tom’s shoulders ease, his eyes go blank, and he said, "Seven. Eight. Nine. Tell me who you are."

"Matthew Archer." Tom’s voice was sleepy. This, Giles knew, was the name he’d given the coven. But Zoe had said Matthew Archer had been Tom Quinn’s alias during an emotional period of his life, playing happy-family with his partner Ellie and her daughter Maisie before he’d lost them to the demands of the job.

Beating back a wave of sympathy, he said in the slow, deep, even voice, "Are you Matthew Archer?"

A pause. "I, I want to be."

"Is Matthew Archer real?"

No answer from Tom. He was looking at the watch spinning anti-clockwise, his eyes widening, going a darker blue – as blue as the North Sea in which he’d disappeared after being accused of treason, after shooting Harry. Blue as the sea from which his unconscious body had been pulled.

Giles measured the moment, then said, "Are you Matthew Archer?"

"I want to be." The voice was gravelled now. When the sea-witches had picked him up, the man’s hands and face had been scraped raw by rocks. "I want to be. But I have to tell her I’m not."

The watch spun more slowly, gold only a flicker now. The smoke from the magicks trailed around them both, knotting them together. "You’re safe now. You can speak the truth. Tell me who you are."

"I’m a spy. I work for MI5." The words were almost inaudible, but Giles had been waiting for them; although Tom had heard his name, no one had told him he had been an agent. Anya shifted in her chair, a murmur Giles couldn’t afford to listen to, then went still. Tom said again, "I’m a spy."

"That’s what you are, not who you are. Tell me who you are."

"Oh God, Peter?" Tom’s voice shook. "Did you find your cottage in the country? With her and the roses?"

‘Peter.’ Giles tried to think of Zoe’s briefing. Oh, right: Tom’s mentor Peter Salter, the man who’d looked a little like Giles, who’d killed himself in front of the poor bugger in the middle of an interrogation. He said, "Yes, I did. I’m with the woman I love at last."

There came a smile at that, a heartrending little smile. "I wanted you to. I did, but it was my job to do– the other." The smile broke. "I only cracked you because of the job, I’m sorry."

"I know. It’s all right. Tell me who you are."

A shudder, deep and slow as the voice Giles was using. "No, I can’t. Zoe and Danny, Harry – they don’t believe me. I have to hide."

"It’s all right, they believe you now. Tell me who you are."

On a breath, not quite a sob, his face shattered open. "My name is Tom Quinn. Oh Jesus, my name is Tom Quinn. I know who I am."

When Tom hunched forward, covering his face with his hands, Giles shot a look at the witches to stop them. Then he said, still slow and deep, "No. Look at the watch. Look at the time."

Tom’s eyes looked out from behind the protection of his fingers, fixed on the flash of the gold in the smoke.

"I’m counting back now. When I reach one, you’ll wake up and still remember who you are."

Tom stared at the anti-clockwise spin as Giles counted from nine to one. At "one," he stopped the watch’s movement, his hand swallowing the time-piece. "Now tell me who you are."

"I’m Tom Quinn. I worked for MI5. And I do remember, Giles." He took a shivering breath. "Christ – Peter never got to that cottage with his girl, did he."

"No. But I have. That wasn’t a lie." As he put the watch away, he smiled at the man. "You’ve been missed, Tom Quinn."

"You said Zoe and Danny believe me?"

"Yes, and they’ll be here tomorrow to get you. They’ve fixed it with Harry – they’ve found Herman Joyce, the man who set you up, and it’s all right. But–"

At these words, Tom hid his head in his hands again, shoulders hunched against good news. The marks of pain brought Margaret and Gillian to hurry forward to envelop him, cooing like doves.

That was him sorted, then. At last Giles could turn to Anya–

Who, oh God, was crying silently in her chair. "Dearest?" he said, falling painfully to his knees onto the stone floor in front of her.

She sniffed hard, a darling Anya-like snort, and said, "New family rule – you never use that voice around me again, honey. And keep that watch hidden, okay?"

"You didn’t–"

"Yep. You took me right back, too. Back to when I was human the very first time." As he fumbled for his handkerchief, she said, "Have I ever told you what my name was, Rupert? The name I had then, I mean?"

At the edges of his consciousness, he registered Margaret and Gillian taking Tom away, the door shutting behind them. But all of him now was focussed on Anya. As carefully as he could, he dried her tears. "No, you never have. Tell me now."

Her hands balanced on his shoulders, biting in hard, and her tone was sharper than usual. "Aud. They called me Aud."

One last brush of linen against her cheeks, and then he leaned back, gazing at her. "Beautiful Aud.... No, no, darling, that wasn’t supposed to make you cry again." This time he gave her the handkerchief, so she could get her own tears more effectively. "Er, what’s wrong, what did I say?"

"Let’s just say I’ve heard that phrase before in less than pleasant circumstances. I remember it quite clearly now." After she blew her nose, she stuffed his crumpled handkerchief in her pocket. Then she smiled at him, sunshine in the dark, shuttered room. "But when you call me that, it makes me happy."

"Just give me the word, I’ll say it whenever you like." His hands went to her thighs, stroking up and down, the contact easing him as much as her. God, he loved her so much, and he’d disappointed her so this afternoon – he found himself saying, "I’m, um, desperately sorry for earlier. I’ll bloody well resign if you wish, you just tell me. I don’t want to ever hurt you, dearest, don’t want to end up like that poor sod Tom Quinn. Or like Peter, the dead man he thought I was."

Leaning forward, her mouth met his, in tears and regret and a tremble he couldn’t control. Then she whispered, "Shut up, Rupert, I shouldn’t have asked and I’ll never ask you again. It’s your job, and you’ll leave it when you’re ready and not a second before." Another kiss, longer, sweeter. "So, we’re good?"

"Quite good," he said softly. But oh Christ he was weary and sore: reaction, he assumed. He shifted his weight off his aching knees and slid down her body, then, his arms locking around her waist, he laid his head in her lap. "Just give me a second here to breathe. It’s been a hellish afternoon, and I’m rather tired. It’d be nice to rest with you before we walk back."

"See there, I told you we should have brought the car." But her own arms circled his shoulders, held fast. "Sounds like a plan, honey. All apocalyptic crises can just wait."

He chuckled and leaned more heavily on her, his hands caressing her, and her hold tightened. He could feel her rings, cold against his neck. In a voice only he could hear, she whispered, "My husband. Mine. And I keep what’s mine safe."

"My wife. Mine," he said back, his eyes closing on the ghosts and the smoke. "And I keep what’s mine safe."

Entwined, they rested in the small, shuttered room until Margaret came in and shook them apart.

***

As the Junior Watchers and Scoobies walked through the twilit, busy streets toward the Holborn Tube station, Willow kept looking behind her. The end of the work day meant the streets were full – harried workers running for Tube or bus, two by two or alone, colliding with bags and briefcases and frustrations. She couldn’t see anything else. But the presence of dark magick crawled up her spine, made her hands shake.

It was what she’d felt at lunch, when they’d all perched like pigeons on a bench in Bloomsbury Square, squabbling over drinks and sandwiches and which animated version of Batman was better. From somewhere, she couldn’t see where but could feel it, they were being watched.

Ahead of her, Dawn suddenly said, "Oh wait! We’ve got to cut through here, I almost forgot." Andrew and Xander pulled by Summers energy, Willow following more slowly, they headed under an spotlit arch – "Sicilian Avenue," the sign said – into a small shopping-and-eating alley.

"What’d you forget, Dawnie?" Andrew said.

But she was already stopping in front of a small florist’s halfway down the arcade. "For Mrs Rajan next door, remember," she said breathlessly as she dove into the shop.

"Oh right," Andrew said. When Xander asked what was the what, he added, "Giles and Anya are supposed to get delivery today of a case from the wine shop on Upper Street? We get one every month, but obviously nobody’s there to answer the door during Investigations and Acquisitions hours. Harry at the shop always leaves it with our neighbour, though, and Anya always gives Mrs Rajan flowers in thanks."

Blossoms arranged in buckets on an outer shelf obscured the shop window in whites and yellows and bursts of red; Willow remembered another bloom stealing through the earth, seeking the sun where it wasn’t supposed to be, and she found herself smiling. Her fingers touched a white rose, petals so soft, like Tara. She could think of her now and not lose her smile. Dropping a pound coin in the bucket, she took the rose.

But that sense of dark magick strengthened still, choking her.

She looked back over her shoulder. In the midst of the bags and briefcases and hurrying coats, a grey, shadowy man stood at the other end of the alley, watching them. When he caught her gaze, he flickered back into a doorway. Not out of her sight, though.

Dawn bounded out of the shop, hands full of tulips. "I’m ready, you guys–"

And Willow said, "Wait, all of you. I need to do something." The hand with the rose carefully to Xander’s back, a hand to Andrew’s, and a quiet instruction to Andrew to put his hand flat on Dawn’s back -- then she shut her eyes. Behind dropped eyelids, flowers bloomed in smoke, whites and yellows and bursts of red, and she breathed, " _Tutamen_."

A veil of magick dropped between them and the shadow-man at the other end of the arcade. Even though the man moved toward them in a stuttering hesitation-step, she knew he couldn’t see them any more.

"What’s wrong?" Xander said quietly.

"Nothing. Just a safety-thing," she said, dropping her hands and smiling at them. "But let’s get going, okay? Go home and get into that wine."

"Good thinking," Xander said, his arm coming around her shoulders in another kind of safety.

As the four plunged into the traffic on Holborn High Street, though, she could still feel the pull of dark magick, which reached out to her, winding around them all. The veil might not be enough to protect them tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

When the Lady Yeangelt shut the fence gate behind her, its metal shuddered as if it had been struck.

Since yesterday and her false signature on a contract, the key to pass through the gate to this dead ground was hers. She would have passed through regardless, but it amused her to follow the human path for a little while longer. Bending down, she scooped up a handful of dirt.

She could feel movement under her feet. Several of Master Hat's minions were already down in a tunnel that the site map had revealed; overseen by Bixp and Garrison, they were hollowing out a space for more taken souls.

Humming a thread of sound, she held her cloak more closely to her, with only her cupped hand exposed. The longer she was trapped in this world, the colder she became – and in any case, the season was on the turn from summer to autumn. If any trees could grow in the earth made rich by the spirits of dead Watchers and their captives, their leaves would be darkening, loosening from their hold on the body, soon to drift down into nothing.

Of course no trees grew on this dead ground. Nor would any grow in the future, once the Rising Time hollowed out all emptiness, all possibility.

Smiling, she lifted her face to the sunrise. Her hand began to release the dirt in a familiar pattern, signing on the earth the sigil that marked her true name, a demon rite to match the human one she'd acted.

Not too long from now, all gates would open, and only the demon rituals would matter. That beautiful reality was what she'd see in the scrying mirror today, she thought.

***

For the second morning in a row, gurgling water pipes overhead and the noise from two sets of footsteps made Tom Quinn open his eyes. Not that he'd been asleep; he hadn't been able to sleep since his memories had returned.

Slowly, with as much control as he could muster, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of his cot. It was dark in the cellar of Swallow's Nest. He could scarcely see his hands in front of him; it was as if he floated here, still cut off –

But the sound in the pipes cut off abruptly, water draining away, leaving him awake and scraped raw on the shore. "My name is Tom Quinn. I work for MI5," he whispered into the dark, tasting the sourness of the words.

He switched on the lantern beside the bed, then, wincing, dragged his palms over his eyes. He would have to go upstairs, he knew, but he felt so tired. Couldn't pull himself out of it. The hell of being Tom Quinn again was knowing what was coming.

There was the lingering embarrassment too. Not just from his breakdown of the previous morning, either – God, he could still feel the anger at the familiar dead man's face, the way that names had dissolved even as he struck out at them. He knew their names now: Giles, not Peter; Anya, not Andrea. But that didn't make his last memory any better.

 _After dusk he escaped from the coven. They'd fed him, soothed him, coddled him as they always had, but their kindness as always confused him. From the first touch of Anna the sea-witch waking him on the beach to the first time Margaret brewed him a tisane, from Gillian giving him a job to Siobhan showing him Swallow's Nest and telling him he could stay there, he'd waited for an attack that never came. He'd even tried to walk away several times, but he always returned to those who knew him as Matthew._

 _Long ago he'd told a child that Matthew Archer was a secret name. Secrets were safety._

 _Tomorrow he'd go back to Tor House for one last time, but then he'd be taken back to London, to questions and harsh lights and people who hadn't believed him. It wasn't home any more, even though he remembered it now._

 _Stumbling, he went on through the night. He had to get back to Swallow's Nest, to the subterranean home the witches had found for him. For one last time he'd be Matthew, safe in the dark._

 _When he let himself in the back door with his key, however, he heard soft voices from the other room, and he remembered Giles and Anya, who belonged there. He didn't understand their kindness either. The attack he'd expected had come at last, but he was the attacker – yet they had still helped him._

 _He should tell them he was here._

 _Quietly, because he was Tom Quinn of MI5, he went through the darkened kitchen and the hall where two pillar candles flickered on the entryway table. The voices got louder as he approached the last room, even though he couldn't distinguish what they were saying. He could hear the crack of fire too, smell the logs burning._

 _When he got to the doorway, however, he found himself unable to cross the threshold of the shadows. His gaze was caught by the couple in front of the fire, their bodies dark silhouettes against the flames until his eyes adjusted. "That's a nasty arrangement of bruises" were the first soft, sharp words he heard._

 _Anya sat in a chair, pouring something from a green glass bottle into her palm; her legs were curled around Giles, who sat cross-legged and shirtless on the floor. His head was bowed, waiting for her. "No matter, darling. Margaret's potion should set me to rights."_

 _"Honestly, Rupert. I wish you'd take your hurts seriously if you're going to spy."_

 _"If?"_

 _"Since. I meant 'since.' Calm down, we've settled that." After setting aside the bottle, she put her hands on his shoulders and began to knead the muscles there. Giles's head went back as she worked, his eyes closed, his body shifting whenever she hit a sore spot. Her rings caught the firelight, gold and diamond flashing in a circle just as Giles's watch had done._

 _Tom knew he should say something, anything – or he should leave, go into the darkness where he could hide. But he couldn't speak or move. He just stared at the light. Ellie... Christine... his past lives mapped on the two in front of the fire. He remembered all too well now._

 _As one of Anya's hands balanced on his shoulder, the other easing lower on his back, Giles began to hum. She leaned down, her lips to his ear: "Are you going to sing for me? I always like your singing, even when under an evil spell."_

 _"Ha. At least it'd be easier than poetry recitation. Um, not Patti Smith, I think." His head fell so that Tom couldn't see his expression, but the notes that came from his throat were clear and true: "'You're in my blood like holy wine, And you taste so bitter and you taste so sweet....'"_

 _When her hands stilled, the flash of her rings died. "Oh, honey," she whispered._

 _He turned in her grasp, smiling at her, still singing. "'I could drink a case of you, darling, and still I'd be on my feet....'" His arms went around her –_

 _"Christ, no!" The words ripped out of Tom. "Stop, please stop!"_

 _"Oh, fucking hell ," Giles muttered, hiding his face against his wife's body for a breath until the two turned as one to glare._

 _Stepping out of the hall, Tom said, "I'm so sorry. It's just... I needed a place to stay tonight."_

 _"So you just let yourself in? And then stood there and watched us?" she said. "That might be good tradecraft, but I think you're carrying espionage too damn far."_

 _"I know–"_

 _"Right, er, fine. You don't want to stay at Tor House?" Despite the embarrassment staining his cheeks, Giles strove for a normal tone. "I'm not sure if there's a bed made up in the spare room, but I'll look."_

 _"No, sorry, I'll stay where I've been staying. Please, pretend I'm not here." Tom tried to smile, then fled back through the hall to the kitchen, to the cellar door. He didn't breathe until the door shut behind him and he was safe again in the dark. But he couldn't forget again._

At a knock on that door he startled, brought back to morning and his aches. "Tom?" Giles's voice said from the other side. "We're making breakfast, if you're interested."

"Oh. Yes, thanks, I'll be right up," he called. One last drag over his eyes –

Then the door opened, grey morning light pouring into the cellar. "Sorry to intrude on your privacy," Giles said, even as he walked down the steps. "But, er, I haven't been down here in a while, thought I might take a look."

"No, it's fine. It's your house." He made himself relax.

Putting his hands in his pockets, Giles looked around at its dark corners, stone floor, empty space except for the cot, the lantern, a book, and a box of clothes. After a quick sweep his gaze seemed to focus on a spot just beside Tom's head. Tom stayed still, waiting for whatever Giles would say. "Strange, I can't make out what that is. A hole, do you think?"

He turned to look. It was a familiar depression in the wall, one he'd spent hours staring into, his mind blank – "Yes, I think it might be. Someone's put up a board to cover it, though I couldn't vouch for how well it'd hold."

"Oh dear. I'm going to have to spend more time here, start maintaining the bloody place." Giles sighed. "Not exactly a DIY enthusiast, but I suppose I'll learn. Anya will demand it."

"Yes." Tom didn't quite know how to respond or where the conversation was going.

Giles sat down a little stiffly on the bottom step, then rested his hands on his knees. Although the tilt of his head in the dimness was painfully like Peter's, the smile was his own. "Right. So Danny and Zoe are taking you home this afternoon."

Home. "That's what you said."

"Um-hm." Giles looked at the floor for a minute. "Zoe's my and Anya's handler at Five, by the way. You might not have figured out that we gather demon intelligence product."

"Just like you did before?" He didn't remember the details, never had much to do with those ops; Harry had always run them. Harry.... "You're the Council liaison again?"

"No. Although we keep ties to the Council, I'm no longer a Watcher. You might remember that the Bloomsbury headquarters–"

"– Was blown up last year, yes."

"Yes. The Council has re-formed in America, although Anya and I are training a couple of juniors on our staff here. We've got our own business – not a cover exactly, it's real, but it serves as the other too. We're Giles and Jenkins. The extraordinary, found and explained." His smile deepened, and he looked up toward the sound of her footsteps overhead.

"A useful business, I'm sure." Tom hesitated. " But I'm not sure why you're telling me this."

"Because you're going to be in the thick of it when you get back to London. We're researching a prophecy that suggests a demon terrorist threat to humankind in the near future, and fucking Harry's chosen this of all times to be a pompous bureaucratic git."

"Harry does what Downing Street tells him." The pipes gurgled again, and Tom rubbed at his eyes, digging at the memory of the kickback of the gun against his body and the sea closing over him. "I hardly think I'll be in a position to help you. Don't even know if they'll let me back in the service."

"Oh they will. Zoe and Danny have been working tirelessly on your behalf since they learned... since you've been gone. You might not be section-chief again right away, mind – shooting a spymaster requires some penalty– but you'll be back in Five." Giles shrugged. "Just letting you know how the land lies. Some of the terrain has changed."

Tom took a deep breath and said, "If that's the case, there's a demon threat, I promise I'll do everything I can. Even from my new position in the canteen."

"That's the spirit, old son!" Another grin, another dead-man's reflection. "Now come on up and join us."

The kitchen was light, warm, filled with the smell of bread and flowers and something cooking on the stove. Their entrance was punctuated by Anya putting the teapot down on the table with one hand, while saying into the mobile at her ear, "I'm not sure. Maybe you should ask Rupert." Then she handed the phone to Giles. "Honey, it's Andrew and the others. They want to know if they should make contact with Nalph; they found the right vessel, but you know the Mikh code of conduct is tricky, and then, Andrew–"

"Dear Lord, yes. Thank you, darling." Taking the phone, Giles walked toward the hall, saying, "It's me. Now tell me slowly and without popular-culture references what the situation is."

This left Anya, hands on hips, to stare at Tom. Fighting an instinctive urge to bolt, he managed a smile. Nodding, she said briskly, "Good morning. Now I'm told that you're actually a good guy, despite all evidence of personal attacks and creepy voyeurism to the contrary." He found himself pushed down into a chair, then scooted up to the table as if he were in the nursery. "So sit there quietly, pour yourself some tea, and I'll get you some eggs."

For the first time since he could remember, Tom Quinn laughed out loud.

***

Up and around, back and forth – swinging their legs in time, Andrew and Dawn sat on the conference table and awaited further long-distance instruction from the male senior partner of Investigations and Acquisitions.

The speaker-phone hummed – or was that Giles?– before he said, "Well, are you two sure you understand the complicated levels of Mikh interaction? I've made mistakes and was clawed for my pains, you know. Bloody unpleasant."

"Um." His hand loosening his tie so he wouldn't choke on the nerves, Andrew looked at Dawn. "I'm not really so good with wounds."

"Of course you're not, but it's not an issue," she said, patting his hand. "Giles, we know the bad, but we've handled simple stuff on our own before–"

At which point the outer door opened, and the voice of Gerry, the handsome and efficient UPS delivery person, was heard: "Package for Investigations and Acquisitions!"

Andrew started to get up, because it was his turn to sign for the package and lust, but Dawn was faster off the table. As her feet hit the floor, she said, "Back in a sec, you guys keep talking."

"I take it the vessel's arrived?" Giles said. "Well done."

Willow, who'd been leaning against the doorjamb between outer and inner offices, dodged out of Dawn's way before saying, "Looks like it. So, Giles, if it makes a difference I can go with them." She was all Magick-Goddess again, glowing and fierce like yesterday when she did that spell right in the middle of Holborn, even though she seemed kind of tired too. Her sitting up for hours with Xander watching the DVD collection of _Secret Agent_ might not have been the best idea, Andrew thought; the two Scoobies had been quiet all evening, sitting on Dawn and Andrew's couch, eating popcorn Dawn had made, and drinking their way through two bottles of something red from the wine shop delivery. But they'd been smiling, which was good.

"I can protect them," she said.

"Of course you can, Willow." There was the Giles-confidence Andrew liked to hear. He let go of his tie and sat up straighter, Watcher-fashion, even though Giles was in Devon and couldn't see. But then: "The visit still might be ill-advised, however. Nalph doesn't do well with surprises, and, er, recent events suggests that he might not accept you all."

"I didn't _mean_ to do it!" Andrew protested, for the hundredth time. "The petrified hearts were just, you know, in my way and there was an itch in my nose. And there was pixie-dust–"

"I meant that since the Pennith terror campaign he's only been doing business with closely vetted individuals, such as me and Anya; junior staff might not suit him. But yes, Nalph might also remember that other, um, incident."

"Giles, stop being waffly and tell us what's the what," Willow said, just as the outer door shut.

It was quiet in the conference room. Up and down, back and forth – Andrew's legs moved more quickly, stirring the air so that he didn't have to think about the scariness of the Mysterious Emporium, and the claws and teeth of both owner and patrons. Big, sharp claws and teeth.

Giles finally spoke. "It's not really a time-sensitive matter, and anyway we'll be back tomorrow or the next day. Just wait for us, I think."

Carrying the small box marked Fragile, Dawn came back into the room in time to hear the judgement. She burst out, "Come on, Giles! This isn't about all those Buffy-calls about safety blah blah, is it? Because a delivery's not a big responsibility. Not a big deal."

"I'm sure–" Giles began.

But Andrew said, "No, really. You can ask Anya, I managed the last time with her just fine."

The speaker-phone amplified the overly patient I-would-smack-you-but-I'm-hundreds-of-miles-away-and-I-repress tone."Yes, I know. You've both done quite well on recent missions, and no one doubts Willow's gifts. But there's no rush, there's no need for risk. Wait." A cough, then he said, "Is everything else all right? Willow, how are you and Xander enjoying London?"

Andrew and Dawn looked at her, waiting for her to say something about Sicilian Avenue spells and something possibly evil watching them all yesterday. Or wine-theft, of course. Instead she folded her arms – Magick-Goddess fully functioning – and said, "Xander's fine, I'm great, the Juniors are behaving. Everything's under control, okay?"

"Yep!" Dawn said, picking up the cue. "You go back to your honeymoon bliss, and we'll just, like, keep everything under control. Junior Watchers on duty, you know."

"As we're going to Tor House after breakfast, I don't know how much 'honeymoon bliss' is in store at the moment. But thank you, Dawn. All of you." There was a thud and Anya-voice in the background, and Giles said, "Sorry, I need to ring off. But I appreciate what you're doing. I count on you–" Then there was a muffled 'Darling, don't,' like he hadn't covered the phone very well, before – "Er, sorry, must go. We'll call you tonight."

Dawn hung up the phone, then whirled around to smile at them – which made him more jittery than three shots of Starbucks espresso. "Okay. Okay, although he said to wait, he didn't say we had to wait, you know? He said he thought we could make the delivery without any problem. We could still go."

Willow said, "It's not my decision. Remember, Giles doesn't like when you don't do what he says... although he _was_ waffly, and yeah, he also said he thought you could handle it. And I didn't feel anyone watching this morning." She inspected them both, like a problem she was about to solve with a wiggle of her nose. "So how familiar are you two with the delivery procedure? Do you really know what you need to do?"

"Well, there's a not-password, and a certain etiquette–" he began, uneasy.

"But we know it, which is the thing. Willow, we could brief you on the protocol. It's an in-and-out deal, really, just bow and scrape and grab the cheque," Dawn said. "Anyway, you're a member of the Council now. You could authorise our going – it'd be like practice, and besides, the Mysterious Emporium is very, very cool. As a new Watcher and a witch, you should see it."

"All good points. But, um, why did we call Anya and Giles if we weren't going to listen to them?" he said, then wished he hadn't when they looked at him in a female-power way, like two reflections of Wonder Woman but slightly less Amazonian and more gleaming-haired.

"If they'd completely forbidden it, of course we wouldn't do it," Dawn said. Handling the package carefully, she took her place on the table close to him. "We should go, Andrew. Remember how great we worked together at the Frontier? And this is like a hundred times less dangerous."

Smiling, Willow sat on his other side. "It's up to you, Andrew. But I'll support you guys if you want."

"Come on, Andrew...." Dawn said in her most wheedling voice.

It wasn't fair, it really wasn't fair. Although he cleared his throat, intending to be firm and a good Investigations and Acquisitions employee, what came out was a weak "Okay. Delivery to the hoppy business frog of darkness it is."

***

Xander stabbed a fork in a piece of toast, making jam spurt onto Giles and Anya's kitchen table, and said into the cell phone again, "Look, Faith, I get it. It's all good."

"Is it?" Even from across the Atlantic, she sounded awfully awake for someone who'd stayed up all night Slaying with her new Watcher and his new souled-vampire buddy, come into town a goddamn week ahead of schedule. New guy, same as the old guy– "I just wanted to call, you know, ask...you're sure you're not mad I'm working with Wes? And old Spike?"

"No, I'm not mad. Why would I be mad?" Another stab at the toast. "We're on a break, anyway, which has nothing to do with anything anyhow because we're just talking business–"

"Okay, pal, it's just business. And the 'break' was your fucking idea. Like your idea of not doing fieldwork with me for the Council." Her voice was a Slayer-punch in the stomach.

Behind his eyepatch he could feel an ache, as if tears were still possible. "Yeah. Which does raise the question why you have a Watcher at all. Buffy's free from the pompous supervisor thing. Don't see why you're so happy to have a not-so-little helper."

She said quietly, much too quietly, "I want to do the Slayer gig right this time. Wanted to do a lot of things right this time. Guess you can't imagine that, huh?"

Man, nobody could hang up a phone as hard as Faith. "Bye, sweetheart. And say hello to Spike for me," he said to dead air.

Sighing, he laid down his cell and stared at the remnants of his late breakfast. He didn't feel much like eating anyway. The wine from last night lingered in his head and his gut, weighing him down. He didn't know why he had gone for the two most expensive bottles in the case or why he and Willow had drunk faster and faster, as 1960s spies flickered in black-and white.

Actually, in the light of morning he did know. It had been the last drops of weirdly displaced teenage rebellion, sort of 'Dad's left us alone, so let's stay up all night and drink his booze!' Except Giles wasn't their dad, and neither of them was a teenager any more – and of course, the first time he'd left them, they'd rebelled by raising Buffy from the dead. Downing a couple of pricey bottles of Burgundy didn't exactly compare.

Afterward he'd walked Willow downstairs, the two of them holding onto each other as they negotiated the steps. She'd brushed her lips against his cheek when they reached her landing – she'd taken the guest room across from Giles and Anya's suite on the second floor, leaving him to sleep downstairs in the midst of the magic – and whispered, "We're too old for this stuff. But it was fun one last time, wasn't it?"

After he pushed away his plate, he picked up his organiser. Yeah, Alexander Harris with an executive planner, wouldn't his dad have laughed. Ignoring the ache, he checked what he had to do today: call Amelia Markby after lunch for her background on other Council properties in the U.K; set up his meeting for next week with Ms Barnes, the once-retired Watcher now overseeing the Birmingham Slayer. Nothing else. He could have gone in to work with Willow and the kids, after all.

But no, he was tired and hung over, and for some strange reason he found Giles and Anya's house...restful. It was familiar, with old books and magic stuff and the mess left behind by Dawn and Andrew (and the holes in their living space, left by shitty builders who Anya totally needed to fire), but also he could see signs of a new life, of something better. What had Faith said? She wanted to do it right this time. Yeah, he got that.

Maybe he'd call her back after she'd had time to sleep off her mad.

When the phone in the living room rang, an alarm in the silent house, he almost fell off his chair. "Give a guy some warning!" he said, before walking hesitantly, like he was on patrol, into the other room.

The answerphone clicked on before he could turn it off. The connection was bad; it took a second or two before he could make out Buffy's voice, faint through the static. "...hey...miss it? I..."

Grabbing the phone, he punched a button or two. "Hey Buffy! Xander."

"....der? Did you...after all?"

"Can't hear you, Buf. But yeah, I'm here. Giles and Anya are off on their honeymoon –" not a wobble in his throat or his heart at the words, go him –"Dawn's at work with Willow. And, you know, Andrew."

"...Good. Except I'm late, can't....battle....team...Baja peninsula."

"What? I can't hear–"

"Tell Dawn not....Giles." There was a snake-hiss of static, then "...Sorry. Love ya!" and the line went dead. Kind of like every time he'd tried to talk to Buffy lately.

He wondered what she'd say about the new Watchers from Los Angeles. She hadn't talked about that either, even when Faith had dropped a gigantic hint about who was coming, but he'd been consumed with pre-not-his-wedding jitters. He'd have to ask, when they all got back to Cleveland.

Checking his watch, he saw that he had loads of time before he had to work. He could go out exploring, check out London-town. Or he could catch a cab down to Investigations and Acquisitions. But somehow he found himself thinking about something Andrew had said yesterday, thinking about the holes in the wall in the Junior Watchers's place.

"I wonder where Giles would keep his toolbox. Or if Book Guy would even have a toolbox," he said, the words echoing in the empty hallway.

***

As the front door of Tor House shut behind them, echoing in the stone hall, Anya repeated her question. "What do you mean, you want us to meet with the seer before we get our marks of protection?"

Gillian Harkness raised her eyebrows in an irritating high-priestess way. "It seems you've understood quite well, Anya."

Rupert's hand enfolded Anya's, their usual signal to let him handle it. Of course, he was looking extremely tall and more extremely furious, which should put a little fear into Gillian. And Siobhan, who was floating, literally, down the hall behind her. And Margaret, holding Tom Quinn's arm so he wouldn't run away again, and Michael the runes specialist, and Tanner who usually lived in a hermitage over in Cornwall, and – ignoring the signal, Anya said, "What's with the welcoming committee?"

"An excellent question." Rupert's voice was level, despite the anger. "You really should tell us what's going on."

Gillian said, "Just follow me, you two."

Beyond a tightening of their handclasp, neither one moved. He said, "I've known you all for years, I respect you, and I honour your gifts. But we're not bloody going anywhere until you explain the latest change in plans."

"Do you think you can stand against us?" The question sounded idle, but Anya saw Gillian's fingers curl, feel a snap in the air. This was alarming.

As was Rupert's dangerous quiet. "Are you standing against _us_?"

"Easy now, Giles. All will be made clear," said a rich male voice, with a lilting accent Anya couldn't place at once. The witches parted ranks so that an older man – too thin, long-haired, and cloaked like someone who had spent a great deal of time perusing the book covers in the Fantasy section of the larger bookstores – could walk through. As he came toward them, he said, "You just have to let time flow. If you can do that, you bloody Sassenach Watcher."

"You pillock, living in Glasgow doesn't make you a Scot," Rupert said, his grip on her relaxing. "I didn't know you were coming down with Catriona." Oh _him_ , Anya thought, which the introduction confirmed: "Darling, this is Randolph Mortimer. Catriona's husband, you know; we've sent some spirit-cleansing business his way. Randolph, this is my wife Anya."

With a deep bow, Randolph caught her free hand and brought it to his lips. "The blushing bride at last! Lovely to meet you, Anya."

"I'm not actually blushing – Oh, right, ill-timed figure of speech. Hi." As he moved to shake Rupert's hand, she added, "So are you going to tell us what the deal is?"

"Come with me, children, and you shall learn the news about your mirror. Let me take you to my lady's chamber," he said, gesturing to the main staircase.

"Randolph," Rupert said in a warning tone.

"Giles." The man's grin widened. "It's possible that we might have misrepresented a few things about the mirror request – for your own good, only for your good! But time's flowing faster, and up we must go."

Gillian was already halfway up the first flight of stairs; the rest of the witches seemed to have disappeared. "Come," she said.

Rupert said under his breath, "I don't see what choice we have, darling."

"Nope. We should see what's going on." As they started after the mage and the priestess, though, she said, "Regarding the mirror, Randolph– is it all right if I call you that?"

"I would be hurt if you didn't," he said, taking the first steps in a flutter of blue cloak. "And you found exactly what my sweet Cat saw."

"Good. Investigations and Acquisitions aims to please," she said automatically. Except: "You said 'misrepresented'? Okay. Your request was a scrying mirror, silver and copper tracings along the sides, preferably from the eighteenth century, one with clear provenance that had remained in the same family's hands–"

"Oddly enough, I had one in my own collection, passed down from my grandmother," Rupert said, as he pulled her onto the second flight of stairs.

"We knew you would, mate. That was the point." Randolph smiled, a gleam in the darkness, before he turned to jump to the next landing.

"I don't like it," Rupert muttered. But he hurried their steps to keep up.

Anya noticed that the coven had placed rushes on the stairs in the old-fashioned way; they crunched underfoot as she and Rupert climbed. Old dust and dead grass – it reminded her of a vengeance-job several centuries ago. She had played a lady, taking the confidence of a horribly wronged wife, with long afternoons of needlework and chatter by a fire in an upper chamber. It had been cold, so cold, that she had always tucked her feet into the rushes for warmth.

The rushes had been soaked black with blood after the woman had made her Wish, and Anya had hated sewing ever since.

"Are you all right?" Rupert whispered.

"Bad memories," she whispered back, moving closer to him. "Don't worry about me, honey. What do you think it–"

"In, in, in," Randolph said, appearing in front of them. Before they could react his hands caught their jackets, and they were pulled through an open door. Anya had been in Tor House a couple of times, but she'd never gone upstairs – which was why the green room, its dim expanse and its three small windows set high into the wall, its long central table set with smoking candles and the mirror, surprised her. It looked familiar.

Gillian stood at one end of the table. At the other was a small, sleek woman lighting the last candle. She looked up, tossed back blue-streaked hair, and grinned. "Giles! Come here and give us a kiss, handsome."

"Hey now!" Anya snapped.

"She's just teasing, darling." Rupert's clasp tightened, even as he smiled. "Hello, Cat. It's been a long time."

"I wasn't teasing, man. Haven't seen you in person since you dropped that tweed disguise – but I should have known what lay beneath." She leapt at them in a move so fast that Anya barely had time to step in front of her husband and block unapproved contact. Smiling, Catriona said, "And this must be the trophy wife! Anya, you wouldn't mind if I kiss an old friend hello?"

"Yes, I would, even if he wouldn't. Anyway, what's with the mirror, and could you get to scrying now?" To Rupert: "What does she mean, I'm a trophy?"

"Just a ridiculous expression. You're far more to me than a prize." He dropped a kiss on her hair, which made her feel slightly less like clawing out the seer's eyes, before he said, "Anya's right, we can chat later. They –" he nodded to Gillian–"said you were here yesterday, Catriona, meditating on our problem."

"So I was. And I know what has to be done with the mirror you brought." The flirtatious smile had gone, leaving behind quiet purpose. Catriona went back toward the table and pulled out the only chair. "You, Giles, have some seeing to do, and you can't be protected from it."

***

"This way. Just across this intersection, and down Charing Cross," Andrew said nervously, his voice barely audible over the Oxford Street noon traffic.

Willow could have guessed it; she could almost see waves of magick coming from that direction, dark and light ribboned together. The image wasn't bad, not like yesterday, although there were strands of evil woven in. Besides, she felt strong today. "Lead on, young whatever-it-is-Xander-calls you."

"Padawan, which means 'student.' It's kind of an insult, but in a nice way," Dawn said. She checked the package for the fifteenth time before stepping out into the street.

"Wait up, Dawnie!" he said, then threw over his shoulder, "I don't really mind the name, Willow. It's a good reminder of...badness. I've got a lot to learn." He always did that, she thought, the little hesitation and side-step before he got to the truth. But he was trying. He was going to get there.

Following the two across the street, she took a sip of water from the bottle she always carried. She was dehydrated from all the wine she and Xander had put away the night before, but she'd needed the comfort. Even though she and Xander shared a big apartment with Buffy back in Cleveland, it wasn't the same without Dawn and Andrew chattering around them, without snuggling under the cotton throw which Willow recognised from Giles's Sunnydale place (and which Dawn had "liberated" from downstairs), breathing in the scents of Anya's garden through the open windows. She and Xander had drunk way too much, thought too much about what was gone. But she felt better today, even so.

When she put the water in her bag, her fingers touched the white rose she'd bought yesterday, and she smiled.

"Come on," Dawn called, already half a block ahead "Let's go, people!"

But when they got to the bizarre little wooden door set into brick, Willow had to put her hand out to steady herself. For just a moment, new magick seemed to wrap around her, encircling her wrists and her waist with those ribbons of dark and light.

"Are you okay?" Dawn said, Andrew nodding beside her. "We don't have to if you don't feel right–"

A breath in and out, a meditation given to her by Miss Harkness during her time in the coven, and the magicks unwound and retreated. "I'm fine. Now show me."

"First, protection. The spell you taught Anya and Giles, and then he taught us." He and Dawn solemnly made the signs, whispered the right words. After she watched them, she did it for herself.

"Second, the password." Andrew dragged his hand through his gelled hair, one last nervous shiver before he rapped high on the door and then low. As the door swung open, he waited for a shout from within. "There is no password."

Willow followed the two of them into the shop. Inside it was dim, the heavy air filled with herb- scents and blood and a beat of power she'd only felt once – when drawing words and knowledge from the books in the Magic Box. She could taste it, feel it shake against her skin. Swaying, she put her hand on Dawn's shoulder and tried to focus.

A small blue demon in dreads sat on the counter. "Are you looking for Nalph, humans?" he said. "I can help you with purchases or orders, of course. But I seem to smell something about you–"

The door's curtain of tiny skulls chattered as a slightly larger blue demon in dreads hopped through, reading something in his hand. "Dalgen, I need..." When he raised his head, his words dried.

"Ah, Nalph," Andrew squeaked. Clearing his throat, he said more normally, "We've found your Nri-encrusted vessel–"

"Out. You saw nothing." Nalph's words were pointed. The assistant took one look at him, then scuttled behind the curtain.

"Lord Nalph," Andrew began again.

"Silence." With one leap the demon cleared the counter, landing in front of them. "You shouldn't be here."

Looking for all the world like Buffy before a row of vamps, chin out and ready for action, Dawn said, "We realise that you deal with our superiors at Investigations and–"

"I said, silence!" And the demon moved in a blur of claws and scales, ripping through the veils of protection.

Willow tried to get between him and Dawn, but Andrew – _Andrew_ – got there first. Blue-tipped razors flashed out across Andrew's cheek, blood rushing through the cuts almost before the claws detached. "Don't speak names here," Nalph growled.

"Shit. Hold this." Shoving the package at Willow, Dawn threw her arms around Andrew, holding him up. His fingers on his sliced face, he was trying not to cry.

Behind the curtain voices raised. Willow could hear a woman, a deep male voice, and the assistant. Nalph cast a glance back, then turned to them. "It's not safe. I'll take that –" he grabbed the package out of her hands despite her efforts to hold on –"and I'll contact your people when I can."

"What do you think you're doing?" Willow said. Concentrating, she sent out a tendril of magick–

And was slammed back against the brick with one upflung claw from the demon. "Leave now , and don't come here again."

"We can't leave the merchandise without being paid," Andrew said weakly.

"I told you I'll contact your superiors in a day or two, and I'll bring payment then." Nalph hesitated, his gaze flicking from Dawn and Andrew to Willow. It was to her he spoke: "Watchers don't live long in this new London, witch. Go back and tell your friends that they're being sought. Someone slipped. Names were spoken."

"I felt it," Willow whispered. "Felt it yesterday."

"And you fooled them? Maybe you're not always so useless," he said. After tossing the package onto the counter, he lifted his claws again –

But she held up her own hands, bounced the magick back to him.

"Maybe you're not so useless," he said again, a smile curling indigo lips. "But go ." Before she could prepare herself or the others, the door swung open, and one more wave, dark and light ribboned together, crashed them out of the shop and onto the pavement.

***

Trotting up Charing Cross Road, Cluth the Gifted whistled to himself, a Biw melody he vaguely remembered from his childhood. Before the exile, of course.

He wrapped his hands more securely around his mirror. The Lady herself had called for him, wishing him to look with her and for her. He would do anything for Yeangelt – even without the handsome fee she'd promised.

In his communication Master Hat had also said something about wishing to know more about where Cluth had gotten the mirror. Obviously if the Lady wished it he would say, but he felt less happy about discussing Investigations and Acquisitions. For one thing, humans were already so endangered – and Cluth was still half-human, still had some trace of genetic loyalty.

For another, they were too good a source to share. He'd been thinking about asking for one of those Nri-encrusted cups too; no reason that Nalph should have all the wealth. A mage deserved a little something of his own, even before the Rising Time.

Squinting against the weak sunlight, he looked toward the Mysterious Emporium. Three humans came flying out of the door, landing heavily on the pavement. The boy was bleeding – even from this distance, the smell of blood set Cluth's stomach burning – and he looked familiar. Wasn't that Anya's helper?

Cluth thought he should inquire, or express his satisfaction with the goods procured by She Who Had Been Vengeance. "Hey, young one!" he called, but the two women with him pulled the boy to his feet, turning him in the other direction. " Hey! "

But they were already halfway to Tottenham Court Road.

Shrugging, Cluth ducked in through the open door of the shop. Just as a precaution, he said, "There is no password," as he entered, even though he abjured the rest of the ritual. Mikh merchants were fussy creatures, after all.

Nalph was examining a package on the counter, but he looked up, frowning. "You're before your time, Cluth."

"Am I?" He checked his watch – yes, he was a little early. "Well, you know, I'm so excited about this work for the Lady–"

But claws struck, magick powder burned his eyes, and he forgot what he was saying in the pain.

***

"I want it on the record that I am _not_ happy about his doing this. And there'd damn well better be a record," Anya said for the fourth time.

"Darling, please let it go," Giles said. Not that he sodding wanted to do it either, not that this was within shouting distance of what they'd arranged, but he didn't see a way out – as he'd explained to her in a whispered marital conference in the corner, while Randolph fetched something Catriona wanted and while Gillian arranged chair and candles in the proper order.

After his explanation, she'd said, "Uh-huh. Three things. One, any fool knows not to do seer-work without proper preparation like meditation or fasting, and the fact that we had fabulous sex last night and you ate like a large and hungry pig at breakfast means you shouldn't do this now. Two, I don't trust this, they haven't told us enough. Three, you are the most idiotic smart man the world has ever produced."

"And you are the most impossible woman," he'd shot back. "What choice do I have?"

"Not to do it. Walk away, Rupert."

"You're really not helping, Anya," he'd said, trying not to be furious. But Christ, he was – angry not at her, or not just at her. He did want to walk away, but he knew he couldn't. Not again.

She'd just shaken her head at him. Impossible, that was the word for her.

Yet when Catriona had said that he needed his fucking tattoo exposed, take in the light or some shite, it had been Anya to take off his jacket and then roll up his shirt-sleeve. Her fingers had moved slowly as she'd made fold upon fold, brushing against his arm in infinite care and love.

Catriona centred the mirror one last time. "Giles, we're ready for you."

After a couple of deep breaths, he crossed to the chair and sat down, then spread his hands on the table.

"Take off your glasses. It's not that kind of seeing," she said.

Before he could, however, Anya was there. She eased the glasses off his face, her fingers once more brushing love against his skin. "I'll keep them for you," she said, and then walked to the other side of the table. He could see her through the fire.

"Focus, Giles – and not on your wife," Catriona said. "Now tilt your head back. Look up."

Focus, she said. Calling on all his training and experience, he tried to erase his consciousness of himself, then looked at the ceiling. It was green like the room, like the fields outside. If he looked hard enough, even with his uncorrected vision he could see irregularities in what should be smooth. Focus.

With part of his mind, though, he registered the movements around him. Cat dipped her hand into a bowl, then stroked her liquid-coated fingers over his forehead and just below his eyelids. It ached where she touched. On his other side, Randolph muttered as he poured something onto the mirror. Anya stood across from him, set off by tapers and flame, watching him.

He looked up and back, blinking hard. The ache was now a burn; he'd felt something like this before, although he couldn't remember where.

"Focus. But look now at the mirror."

The mirror – black ink against silver, swirling as if dropped into water. There were lines formed and lost, patterns that began to take shape then dissolved. Under the black the mirror was green like the ceiling, no, blue like the sky –

"Look at the mirror."

He looked closer. Lines formed and lost, patterns dissolving, black ink against green and blue –

Without warning Catriona jabbed a needle into the base of the mark of Eyghon, just where Griffin had done.

When the point pierced the skin, he lost all sight for a moment. It was worse than before – oh God, darkest pain, howls of those who had gone before, power he didn't know he had, all dark, all pain. He fell through the darkness and then out the other side. The landing was hard, scraping his palms, taking his breath.

Opening his eyes, he saw a familiar rug, greens and blues and a pattern of roses along its boundary. It was the Aubusson rug in the study at home, the one Cousin Martin had left him.

"The cup runs in the family," said Grittnak's voice from somewhere overhead. Giles tried to look back up, but the pain was too much.

"Apparently you don't care," said his father's voice. "Look, you stupid boy, before someone else dies. Maintain what you have." A door opened, then slammed shut, and he could hear footsteps on the stairs. He didn't know there were stairs in that room.

It was dark wherever he was, smelling of earth and the black candles in Pennith's office, burnt almonds and death. In his pockets were two halves of a broken cup, separated for safety – and then the two broken pieces were aloft, spinning in flashes of gold. With a clap of thunder, the cup fused together, and the sky ripped apart.

Roses, petals dark with blood, fell onto the carpet. In the shattering of glass, a soul was lost.

He tried to look back up, but the pain was too much.

***

The kettle began to scream, a sound that echoed off the stone in the Tor House kitchen. It reminded Tom of the morning before, of clutching at names as they dissolved, of memories lost and others all too much found. Nauseated, he wrapped his arms around his stomach.

Even after Margaret switched off the kettle, however, the echo of the scream remained – deeper, lower. "What was that noise?" he said.

Margaret and Siobhan glanced at each other, then back at the morning tea things in front of them. Slowly Margaret lifted the kettle and began to pour it into the teapot, releasing summer and steam. Siobhan, watching, said, "It came from upstairs. The vision room."

When Margaret put the lid on the teapot, the steam disappeared. She said, "The attainment of knowledge hurts, don't you think, Tom?"

"I – I hadn't thought about it."

"Maybe you should. It might help." Siobhan picked up the bread knife, poised it over the fresh loaf, then cut. "You see, a lot of people fight demons, Tom Quinn, not just you."

***

It was silent in the candle-lit private office of the Mysterious Emporium. The Lady Yeangelt sat in the best chair in front of the desk, Cluth fumbled with the mirror across from her, and Master Hat and Nalph stood sentry on either side. All was prepared for the visions.

Nalph hid a smile behind his claws at the thought. He shouldn't smile yet, he knew.

Cluth's hands slipped on the mirror's edges. "I don't know why I'm so clumsy today, my Lady," the fool said.

Yeangelt inclined her head in a token of forgiveness, but her needle-gaze remained. Nalph pushed a candle closer to him, letting the light shine on the mage's reddened eyes and trembling fingers, letting the Lady see and perhaps wonder about the mage's reliability. Quietly he said, "Perhaps you need a little more illumination."

"Thank you, Mikh Lord," Cluth said. Ignoring the snort from Master Hat, he looked around for a moment – "Could I have the ink, please?"

The Lady forestalled Nalph's move; she herself found the bottle that he'd prepared, and gave it to the mage. Her fingertips outlined a pattern on the glass before she handed it off. Nalph had to trust that his own precautions wouldn't be undone by her magick; he reminded himself it was better that he not be seen to touch it. She said, "Let this show us what we desire, Cluth. Let you earn a title for the days to come."

"Yes. Oh, yes," Cluth said. After centring the mirror on the desk and setting down the ink, he pulled a vial out of his coat pocket. "This of course is an element to induce seeing. My Lady, do you wish to partake, or shall it be I alone?"

"I shall look as well," she said. Nalph had expected this, of course.

Cluth hesitated. "Perhaps you should anoint yourself – I shouldn't presume–"

"That is well thought of, Cluth." This time the Lady's nod seemed sincere. She took the vial and wetted her fingertips, then, eyes closed, drew a line like a seam on her forehead.

As Cluth hurried his own anointing, Master Hat said, "And the ink?"

Nalph watched this step closely, for all depended on it. He had laid a spell on the bottle opening, and...yes, the faintest hint of smoke escaped when the stopper was pulled. The ink should be properly corrupted, then.

Cluth, poor shaking fool, didn't see it, nor did Master Hat. Yeangelt was already swaying, her body preparing itself for sight. As the mage poured the ink onto the mirror, Nalph let his lips twitch.

"Something amuses you, shopkeeper?" Master Hat whispered.

"Not amused but excited. I look forward to revelation," Nalph whispered back.

And Cluth and the Lady leaned forward, their gazes fixed on black ink sliding over the mirror.

***

Rupert slumped in his chair, body shivering uncontrollably. "What's wrong? Why the hell did you jab him like that?" Anya demanded, rushing around the table. Before she could get to him, though, Randolph caught her arms behind her, holding her fast.

"That wasn't supposed to happen, I didn't see that happening," Catriona said, hands locked on the edge of the table.

"Then make it un-happen!" Anya said. "And let me go, asshole."

Randolph's grip tightened. "No, you shouldn't touch him until we figure out what's gone wrong. Give us a moment."

Serenity right the hell now, serenity right the hell now. One deep breath, then the explosion: "Wrong answer. You are _not_ leaving him to hurt like that for even one more minute, and mister, if you don't let go, I'm going to implement a vengeance technique which doesn't require an amulet. Are we clear?"

"There's no need for threats, Anya," Gillian said. Unmoved, she leaned forward into the candle smoke. "We simply miscalculated. We knew there would be a strong power in the mirror's family connection, and it's possible that there's more chaos left in him than we anticipated – "

"And that's a damn lie," Anya said. "You were there when he went into that coma, you and Margaret talked to him when he came out of it. You knew where Griffin Hartman stabbed him. You knew about the left-over chaos , and you didn't tell us, and you hurt him anyway. That's what I call bad magick."

Gillian said nothing, her arms folded in righteousness, but Catriona said, "I didn't know about the coma, Anya. I saw the tattoo, knew the Eyghon connection, but – but I wouldn't have caused him pain."

"Too late." With one more tug, Anya pulled out of Randolph's hold. It took only a step or two until she reached the chair, until she bent down to Rupert. He was whispering over and over, words she couldn't distinguish, and when she touched him, the skin felt feverish. "Honey. Honey, wake up."

"That's not going to help, he's gone too far," Catriona said. "But he's seeing something, can't you tell? It's working, even if it's not...right."

Anya snapped, "But how will he _stop_ seeing? Did you think of that?"

Of course they couldn't answer her. They hadn't prepared, hadn't considered him–

Focus, Anya, she told herself. Stroking her hand over his forehead, she bent down to kiss him – even though their life wasn't a fairy tale and he couldn't be awakened that way. When her fingers trailed through the traces of green potion, they burned; she didn't recognise the smell or the feel, but she thought it was an acid base. Oh God, he must be in such pain. What he needed was someone who loved him –

And as the potion's burn intensified on her fingers, she understood. "I'll go get him. My past might not be chaos, but I had vengeance. Send me in."

"How could –" Catriona began.

Anya stared at her. "Your job is to figure out how, okay? Mine is to take care of him." And the right words came to her: "'Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.'"

Apparently poetry worked like good magick.

When Randolph found a chair for her, she pulled herself as close as she could to Rupert and interlaced their fingers, ignoring the terrible heat of his skin. Catriona brushed on the potion, burn upon burn, and Anya looked into the mirror. Then, whispering one last instruction, Catriona jabbed a needle just where the vengeance amulet once had rested.

It was all reflection – mirrored pain, mirrored vision even in the dark, echoed howls of those she'd hurt, her pain and not hers. These were the losses he felt, she realised. She fell through darkness and out the other side. When she landed, it was soft, separate, as if she watched it happen to someone else.

Hall of mirrors, all reflection. Rupert lay face-down, shivering, on the ground – no, on a carpet, their carpet from the study at home. Rose petals, dark with blood, were scattered all around him; she had to pick her way to him through shards of glass. "Honey? Honey, are you all right?" she said, dropping to her knees, making herself breathe.

But he turned his head away. "I do care, I care very much," he said to no one. "Don't let me hurt Anya too. I couldn't bear that."

"Rupert, I'm fine. Come on, look at me."

He turned onto his back, one hand reaching out to her. When she linked their fingers, she could feel in real time their handclasp tightening. She could pull them free.

"It's not as painful as I thought, dearest, well done you," he said absently. Then: "Do you see the broken cup? It runs in the family. There's a hole in the wall – er, wait, there are two. Two halves, separated for safety. Bring them together." He looked at her for a moment as if he really saw her, then his face clouded. "No, strike that. Reverse it."

More rose petals, heavy with blood, fell around them. He said, low and harsh, "I didn't know there were stairs in that room. And I sodding _hate_ roses."

"Okay, honey, got it. Two halves, family, holes and stairs, no more roses. And we're out of here." Using their link, she got him to sit up.

The mirrors shivered all around them, green-smeared threads cracking their surface in another familiar pattern like those study windows in Kensington – the sigil they'd been living with for months. "Bring them together, then tear them apart," he said urgently.

"Nothing's tearing us apart, Rupert, not now, not ever," she said, still pulling. God, he was heavy. "On your feet."

"For fuck's sake, Anya, I wasn't talking about us," he said, his gloriously cranky self, as they scrambled up–

And the mirror on the table shattered, blackness turning to green and sun and candlelight. Rupert's hand was crushing hers. They were back in Tor House – no, they'd never left. But they were back. He didn't hurt any more.

Rupert pulled her to him, kissed her as if they'd been apart for days. She couldn't breathe, but in a good way. "Honey, what," she finally managed to say against his mouth.

When he lifted his head, he managed to smile, despite the pain still written on his face. "The cup runs in the family, right?" he said. "I've been so bloody stupid. Darling, my cousin Martin worked in British Prophecies. He must have found the two halves of the cup."

***

The ink swirled on the mirror without settling, a never-ending river of black. Here and there came a hole in the stream, and then another, but the ink re-formed into solid almost before the silver could escape. In the reflection of the candle flames, the ink looked like blood.

Nalph glanced at Master Hat, whose hood covered his eyes. "What do you see, Master?"

"Hush, shopkeeper. Look to the Lady."

Yeangelt's eyes were open but blank, fixed on the mirror. She swayed back and forth, whispering under her breath, her hands idly plucking at her skirt. Up, then release. Up, then release. Up –

Then she leapt across the table, fingers clawed, and caught Cluth by the throat. "I saw nothing!" she hissed, the human tones all but gone from her voice. It was cold where she lived. "I saw nothing , mage."

Cluth tried to step back, but her hold was too strong. "I–I don't know what happened. I did everything the way it was supposed to be done."

"What did you see?" she said, shaking him as if she were testing a length of silk. He fluttered in her grasp.

"Holes. Deep blue. Holes again," he stammered.

"The Terminus. You must have seen the Terminus."

"My lady, I assume so."

When she threw Cluth back against the shelves, Nalph was there to catch him – his private stock of magicks needed protecting, after all. As the mage sagged in Nalph's arms, she said, "Did you see the Cup of Xet?"

"No, Yeangelt. Just the holes."

Holes in memory, to be accurate, Nalph thought. The forgetting powder he'd used on the fool was still in his pocket.

Master Hat stood behind Yeangelt, whispering into her ear. She inclined her head, listening to him, nodding. Her eyes shone like blood in the candlelight.

Then she stepped forward. "That was a great help, Cluth. As I suspected, we needn't worry about the Cup any longer. We can do without it."

Cluth straightened, brushing at his clothes, heaving a discreet sigh. "I did so wish to please you, my Lady."

"And you did. There shall be a place for you at the Rising Time." As the mage smiled at her words, she raised her hands shoulder height and signed a knot in the air. His hands went to his throat – choking, he fell on his knees. She pulled hard, as if making the knot tight. He collapsed without sound. "Yours shall be one of the spirits we use to call the power of the Xet," she said to the body. "Master Hat, if you wish to finish the taking–?"

"It shall be my pleasure," he said, teeth visible through his hood. Bending down, he captured Cluth's body by the heels and dragged it out of the office. The mage's head cracked against the earth as it went, a sharp small echo in the room.

Yeangelt looked across the candles at Nalph – he made himself look back, impassive. Their gazes held for a moment, before she said, "The boium tree looks better today, I saw."

"The Noothian canusses arrived early this morning while you were at the Bloomsbury site," he said. "I took the liberty of applying the first treatment; it seems to be quite effective. Grittnak didn't lie."

She smiled at him. "The truth is a lovely thing, isn't it? So tell me this. Why do you think the mirror was so unhelpful?"

"A faulty instrument, my Lady. But one you have taken care of."

"Yes." She brushed her fingertip against the mirror, making a hole in the drying ink. Her smile grew dark. "We will use all faulty instruments as we did that poor creature."

"Only to be expected," he said. Outside there rose a dying shriek – the final loss. Master Hat hadn't had time to really enjoy that death.

"Yes," she said again, rubbing her hands together as if for warmth. "I need to sit with my Pennith and Griffin for a time. May I rely on you to oversee tonight's work, Nalph?"

"Of course you may, my Lady."

"I hope so. I do hope so." One more long stare across the fire, a hiss, then she turned away without further speech. The door swung shut after she passed, leaving him alone.

Still, he blew out all the candles before he allowed himself to smile again.

***

Tom Quinn leaned on the stone wall in front of Tor House, staring out into the afternoon. It was his last sight of Devon hills and sky for a while. His caretakers had said their goodbyes already, and his bag, provided by Siobhan, sat at his feet. It was really Matthew Archer's bag, he thought, but he had to take it with him. It was all he had.

Behind him he could hear the front door opening. He turned to see Giles striding out of the coven's house, Anya running to catch up. "Is the vision done?"

"Yes, we've finally got some leads," Giles called. "Tell Zoe, please. And tell her we'll ring in on the Beresfords' phone when we have more news."

"The Beresfords' phone?" he said. "What the bloody hell?"

He thought he hadn't spoken loud enough to be heard, but Anya slowed her rush to their car. "That's us!" she said, beaming. "Tommy and Tuppence Beresford! You're not the only spy with more than one name, you know, Tom Quinn, Matthew, whatever."

Giles reached their Saab first. Opening the passenger door for his wife, he smiled; another dead-man's reflection in the sun, Tom thought, but a much happier one. "Didn't even occur to me until now. We're both Tom, old son."

Names and faces dissolved one last time. The dead man was alive indeed, with the cottage in the country and the gorgeous young wife. The _bizarre_ gorgeous young wife, Tom thought, but still.

After shouting "Don't jump out of any more cellars, okay?" Anya let Giles shut her door. He gave one last wave, then crossed to his own side and got in. With an engine roar and a spin of gravel, they took off down the drive.

Tom's own smile faded when the Saab honked, a sound to disturb the dead, at a black Range Rover passing them. He knew that car. Government car. He lost his breath for a second.

The Range Rover braked in front of him so hard that gravel peppered the bag. Almost before it stopped, Zoe leapt out of the passenger side, saying, "Oh, Tom!"

Here came Danny to stand beside her. Zoe and Danny, the two he'd most trusted, the two he'd failed so badly, the two who had stood there in the farmhouse hating him, disbelieving him – "Oh, Tom," she said again, her face crumpling. "It really _is_ you. You're home."

"Mate, it's good to see you," Danny said hoarsely.

And then Tom was enveloped in arms and friendship, and he was home, Tom Quinn again for real.

***

"We should have set the wards before we left," Dawn said as they opened the front door. She was trying to act normal, or as normal as someone who'd made a horrible mistake and got her best friend hurt could be.

"We couldn't do that. Xander was here, he could have been zapped," Andrew said. His face had finally stopped bleeding after she'd worked on it with the emergency kit they kept at Investigations and Acquisitions, but it had taken her and Willow half an hour to fix. The four tiny bandages looked kind of dashing, like a fencing injury or something, but he didn't seem proud of them like he usually would. Yet he didn't seem mad at her either, which bothered her. He should be mad.

"Where _is_ Xander? Didn't he have work to do, or something?" Willow said, still pale and shaky. At one point during the EMT ordeal Dawn had heard her whisper, "Sorry, my fault," to Andrew, but that was stupid. It hadn't been Willow who'd insisted they go, ignoring everything Giles said.

Dawn dropped the briefcases by the front table. Even if she wasn't a good Junior Watcher, at least she could do Anya's ritual right. She picked up the lighter she kept on the table and leaned forward to light the wish-candles. As she touched flame to the first wick: "Well, he had stuff to do this afternoon–"

Something crashed upstairs, hard enough to shake the walls on the ground floor.

Willow and Andrew yelled "Xander!" in counterpoint, then took off for the stairs. Dawn stayed behind long enough to finish lighting the candles, to make her wishes and ask forgiveness, before galloping up after them.

The door to her and Andrew's quarters was open. Panting, she burst through with the others. Construction Guy Xander was sprawled on his back, Giles's toolbox and a bucket beside him, a trowel in his hand. He was gaping at the wall of their living room. "Hey, you guys," he said conversationally. "Okay, I'm just asking – do you see something, or have I gone bug-shit crazy?"

The three of them turned to look.

He had been working on the wall, obviously; some of the small holes and weak spots had been patched but not yet painted. But in the corner one big hole had been ripped open. "I tripped on the tool box," he said, "and the damn trowel went through the wall, it's weak there. And it hit–"

A doorknob, which was attached to a door.

"Well, I see it," Willow said cautiously.

"Thank God. 'Come to England, go insane' didn't seem like a great selling point, you know?" Xander got to his feet, then went over to the wall. His big hands ran over the wall, pressing in and testing; Dawn caught Andrew's hand, squeezing to remind him not to moan or drool. "Okay, more weirdness – this panel isn't fastened to the studs, it's just loose. Let me try this." He found the edges, took hold, and lifted the wall away.

Rough frame, unpainted boards, hinges. "Yep, that's a door," Willow said.

"And maybe it even works!" Xander put his hand on the knob and turned it slowly. With a creak from disuse, the door opened onto black.

"Ooh, like _Narnia_!" Dawn, Willow, and Andrew said. Then Willow frowned and added, "Although the Chronicles of Narnia are kind of disturbing in their thinly veiled Christian propaganda–"

"Well, maybe it could be Neverwhere instead," Andrew said. "Or any one of Neil Gaiman's masterworks involving doors."

"Seriously, you guys frighten me sometimes," Xander said, sticking his head inside. "Okay. This leads to...a passageway, and stairs. I should have known, the proportions of the room seemed off." He looked back at them. "Where are we? In the house, I mean."

Andrew looked up at the ceiling for inspiration, then said, "Um, above the study, I think."

"Right. Well, should we go down? Or should we call Anya and Giles first?"

Dawn felt a sudden wave of nerves and guilt and more nerves – vengeance was coming, and she deserved it– but she said, "We should call. Definitely ask them first and do what they say. Don't you think, Andrew?"

Her hand was squeezed again – Andrew hadn't let go. And he was smiling forgiveness at her, albeit carefully so he didn't hurt himself more. "You know what, Dawnie? You're a peach of a Watcher."

***

"Fucking...hell...." Giles said through his teeth. He worked the crowbar in a little deeper.

Despite the lanterns they'd brought down, it was dark in the Swallow's Nest cellar. But just as he'd seen that morning with Tom and just as the vision had shown him, here was the depression in the wall, with a board covering a hole, keeping treasure safe. Now if he could just get the bloody thing loose –

Behind him, Anya said, "Do you want any help?"

"I've got it. Just a second."

"Yes, Mr 'I can do it,'" she muttered. "Previous results including claw marks, coma, bruises, bad visions – I'll probably have to rush you to Casualty with the crowbar embedded in your chest."

"Ha ha." Another tug, but at least the board moved that time.

Anya's mobile rang. He put his hands down, took a bit of a breather, while she clicked the phone on and said, "Yes?....You guys did what ?"

"What?" he said, turning to look at her.

She waved her hand at him, enjoining silence. "Xander found hidden stairs in the house? We should have guessed. No, it's not bad."

Giles shut his eyes for a minute, seeing again his vision of mysterious stairs and the two halves of the cup. Cousin Martin and his inheritance, keeping the two halves safe. With renewed energy he applied himself to the lever. More pressure, more pressure – and the board popped free with a creak.

Hole behind the board, just as he had seen. Anya said, "Yep, that's important. Dawn and Andrew, you need to lead on this one – you're looking for a hole in the wall, anywhere in the stairs. Yes, that's what I said. Hole in the wall."

Giles reached his hand into blackness, closed his hand on cool metal. He could feel the magick.

And he and Anya said together, "'The cup runs in the family.'"


	4. Epithalamion

When Anya came out of sleep, she was alone. Rupert's side of the bed was still warm, though cooling fast. He couldn't have been gone long.

She took inventory. Full dark, but the uncurtained bedroom window shone grey with night-mist. Clock, red numbers, 2:30. No sounds from the bathroom, so he wasn't in there. That left only one option.

After all the day's turmoil, not to mention putting extra wards on the house to keep safe one half of the Cup of Xet and then hearing long telephoned confessions from Willow and Andrew and Dawn about disobedience and the loss of a valuable acquisition, he'd gone quiet. He was exhausted, she had thought, and well the idiot should be. So she'd organised a quiet picnic supper out of the contents of the Fortnum hampers, and they'd spent the last evening of their honeymoon curled up together, eating and reading detective novels in front of the fire.

He hadn't got very far in his Allingham, though. Every time she had looked up, he was staring into the flames, his face closed off. That presaged another one of his nightmares, she thought now. His vision must have come back to haunt him.

She got out of bed, shivering in the sudden cold. Season was on the turn – winter would be here before they knew it. Pulling her robe off the bedpost, she wrapped herself up and went to search for him.

On the way down, the lit candles on the entryway table did make her smile. Even if he didn't believe, he did the ritual for her. He did so much for her. The smile carried her down the hall and into the kitchen.

He stood in the open doorway to the world, looking outside: a silhouette, edged in silver by the mist. A slouch of his long body against the doorjamb, a rattle of ice in the tumbler of Scotch in his hand, a deep drag on the unapproved cigarette in his hand. As he blew the smoke out, she said quietly, "Honey, you're going to catch a cold, letting in the night like that."

At the first sound of her voice he tensed, then made himself relax. "Did I wake you, darling? I'm sorry."

"I missed you, that's all. I can't sleep well without my bed-hog." She went to him, her hand rubbing his back. Warm skin, maybe still too a little feverish, through the silk of his robe – "Bad dream from this afternoon? Vision hangover?"

"Yes. But no matter." He took another sip of Scotch, then held the glass out to her. A smile tickled the edges of his lips. "Would you like some?"

"You bet." Ignoring the glass, she stood on tiptoe to drink the taste from his mouth. His lips opened for her, letting her tongue dip in and enjoy. She really did prefer her Scotch this way, even with the faintly nasty tobacco accompaniment. Then, her hands caressing his chest, she said, "That was nice. I'd like some more, please."

"All right. Er, let me just put this out, 's hard to juggle." Easing around her, he went to the table where he'd already set out an ashtray. She didn't like the way his shoulders tensed again even before he crushed out the cigarette, and she couldn't figure out what caused it.

Then she saw the vase of roses, still red, still fresh. _I sodding hate roses_ , he'd said when they were together in the vision– she'd never heard that much sincere loathing in his voice, and she'd certainly never heard it about some stupid flowers. But she knew better than to ask straight out. Small questions lead to big sales, she thought, calling up a memory of their first night together.

He took a long, long drink, his throat moving in a way that made her want to bite at it. Then he turned, sending her a sideways grin. "Didn't you want more?"

"Always." Two steps, and she was locked in one of his arms, lifted up to drink more easily. They kissed until long after the Scotch was gone, until her knees were weak. He slid her down his body and set her on her feet. Swallowing hard, she said, "Hmm. Yes, that was nicer. More is good."

His hand cupping her bottom, he said, "I rather liked it too, darling."

"Of course you did." She allowed herself one little lick just under his Adam's apple, which as always made him shudder in the right way, then said briskly, "Now I'm kind of hungry. Do you want something to eat?"

"Is that a serious question?" Smiling down at her, he pressed her into him so she could feel him hardening.

"We'll get to that too, honey. I'm talking about actual food."

"Spoilsport. No, I'm not hungry." A little kiss on her neck before he let her go. When he stopped smiling, though, she could see the nightmare still was there.

That gave her the strength of mind to force herself to stagger to the refrigerator. As she opened it and looked in, she said, "Why don't you put on some music? Dawn and Andrew gave us a couple of lovely mix-CDs as wedding presents, and I was listening to the portable stereo when I was washing dishes this morning and you were talking to Tom, and – what?"

"You actually want _me_ to select some music?" he said, laughter just underneath his words.

"Oh, good point. No, you find me something to eat, I'll pick a CD."

"I don't know what you want–"

"Yes, you do. More than in choosing music, anyway."

"Christ, you're impossible," he sighed, but he came up behind her, arms on either side of her, and looked into the fridge. "Any thoughts? Meat, bread, cheese, chocolate, fruit?"

"One or two of those would be good, yes. Not too much, just a nibble or two." She kissed his jaw, then slid around him to where she'd left the stereo.

She could hear him mutter, "Just a nibble or two. Right," and she grinned. She knew him – he'd treat this like a research problem and figure out the perfect combination. Leaving him to it, she chose a nice mix-CD and put it in the machine. Soft guitar, kind of jazzy vocals and syncopation, which she approved of – even if his snort suggested he didn't.

She went back to the table and curled up in a chair. He took a little longer to arrange whatever he was fixing on a plate, then he came over to join her. Even as she inspected and sampled her perfectly chosen snack – a few grapes, a small hunk of her favourite Stilton, and another piece of fudge – she noticed that he angled his chair so he didn't have to look at the roses.

They sat like that for a minute or two in the stream of guitar music and night-quiet, he occasionally sipping his Scotch, she nibbling her food. He put his feet on the rungs of her chair, so that slowly, oh so slowly and secretly, he could pull her closer. She'd have laughed at him, or more likely jumped him, except those pain-lines were back across his forehead and around his mouth. They deepened whenever he looked out the window, too, which meant it wasn't just the flowers.

So she ate, and planned, and finally said around a mouth of cheese, "You didn't tell me how Willow and the juniors sounded during confession."

He stared into his Scotch, rolling the liquid around the sides of the glass. "Penitent, of course. They know they left behind a valuable piece of merchandise–"

"Oh, that's my department, honey. And believe me, I'll be taking it out of their skins when we get home." When he smiled at her, she added, "No, I was talking about their mental state. Their, um, Watcher-y state."

"Not my, er, department." He tossed back a mouthful of drink.

"Their Watcher-y state is very much your department, thank you."

"No, it isn't." He looked down at his glass. "Almost out. Excuse me, darling."

As he went over to fetch the Macallan, she said, "Honey, why do you think Dawn and Andrew stay with us?"

"Free satellite television and our well-stocked fridge," he said, pouring himself a good splash.

"I know that was meant to be funny, but come on. You know that they were sent to us because we can care for them, but more because you can instruct them in all things Watcher."

"I don't think so." His hands flat on the counter, he looked away, out the window. Softly he said, "I wasn't a good enough Watcher to instruct anyone."

"That's so much bullshit." When he turned to stare, she said, "No, I'm sorry, but it is. I don't know how many times I have to tell you this."

A long pause for guitar music and night-quiet and his pain. She pushed away her last bits of food, because she could feel the moment of change coming, just as she always had done as a vengeance demon; at that bleak thought, her own face tightened. But he was watching her more closely than she knew, and he said quietly, "What are you thinking?"

"Just a bad memory. I keep having them here."

"I'm sorry, dearest. Sod it, I knew we should have gone to Paris." Carrying his Scotch, he came back to his chair, taking her hand as he sat down. "Are you all right?"

"Don't re-direct, honey. We were talking about you." But her fingers laced with his, held tight. "I'll trade you. One bad memory of mine for one of yours. And it has to be relevant."

He gazed at their interlocked hands for a long moment, then said, "All right. After...after the Eyghon thing, the first time, when Randall died...I came home. Well, came here, to be precise, my parents were on a long holiday. I, er, confessed everything to my father."

"Not a good time, I take it."

"No, to put it mildly. But I deserved worse. I deserved far worse." When he looked up at her, she had to stop herself from throwing her arms around him and telling him it'd be all right. She had to let him talk, even though it hurt. "He took me out in that field, and he went through an exhaustive catalogue of the various ways I'd let him and Mum down, the ways I wasn't fit to be a Watcher. He was right, of course, he was right up and down the line. And then he said that apparently I didn't care."

"Oh. Oh God, honey, I didn't mean to bring that back to you yesterday."

"No, it was fair–"

"It wasn't. It _wasn't_." A connection suddenly snapped into place. "That's why, after the whole raising-Buffy-from-the-dead badness, you just laid the truth out for Willow and expected her to behave. Because _you_ had – I mean, you completely over-corrected with the tweed and the everything, but still, you behaved yourself like a Watcher should."

"But it didn't work, did it? Then or now, since she and Andrew and Dawn went off again today. So you see my father was quite right. Not a real Watcher." He reached out for his glass, took another sip. He swallowed like his throat hurt.

"No. No, because Willow _is_ better now, and you said Dawn and Andrew get it too. You're teaching them just fine–"

"I've told you a memory, Anya. Now it's your turn," he said, his face closed down.

"God, you're aggravating," she said under his breath. When he looked at her over the top of his glasses in characteristic insistence, she added, "Okay. Okay, fine. This house – it's older. England is older, more like what I've known. It's easier to remember...it's just easier to remember here. Yesterday when we came down to breakfast, I remembered what it was like to be Aud. A draughty cottage, and my mother shouting at me, and– me." She didn't know how to put it, exactly.

"Even before the session with the watch?"

"Yes."

"It hurts you to remember?" he said quietly, his thumb caressing the back of her hand.

"No. It's just – it's like when I fall asleep on my arm and it goes dead, there's that tingly pain while the arm comes back to life. That's what remembering Aud is like, kind of – oh, I'm not good at explaining things like you are."

"You are very good at explaining things." He leaned forward to kiss her, just a gentle brush of lips. Then he whispered, "I want to hear about who you were. All of you."

"Not Anyanka, though."

"Yes, even Anyanka." Another kiss, warm with Scotch and love. Close, so close, he smiled at her. "Different, better choices. But we have to know where we started."

"Wise-ass," she said, making him laugh. This was the moment, she could feel the change. Putting her hands on either side of his face, she said, "Okay. Last question. Rupert, tell me why you hate roses, and why you haven't told me this fact before."

"Oh." He tried to jerk away from her, but she held on. "Anya, stop."

"No. In the vision, you just said it like it was a crucial element of your life, but, but I _grow_ roses, honey. I bring them into the house all the time. You've never said a word."

"Because you love them."

"Well, yes, but you sounded like they're the source of utter pain." His face, oh God that sharp-drawn face, confirmed it. Her fingers tightening, she said, "Please, Rupert."

"This is not pain I wish to share, Anya." His coldest Watcher-voice – he must be in agony, she thought. She leaned up to kiss him, and he closed his eyes, his hands biting into her waist, his mouth taking hers. More Scotch, more love, more anger.

When he had to let her breathe, she pulled back to gaze at him. "Okay. I'll just get rid of the things. Problem solved."

"What are you talking about?"

"No more roses ever, for whatever reason. We'll get rid of them all, starting with these." She scrambled out of the chair and went around the table to get the vase. Cold glass under her fingers – it was definitely getting colder in here, they should have at least shut the back door.

Before she could do anything, he was there behind her, his arms on either side. She could feel him shudder, just as he did in the grip of his nightmares, but he said evenly, "Anya, just fucking stop. I've never told anyone."

"Tell me."

It must have been easier because she wasn't looking at him. He leaned heavily against her, his breath against her neck, and said, "It was...it was Jenny. The night she died."

She set down the vase so she could hold his hands to her, start a gentle rocking to soothe. "Tell me about the dead girlfriend," she said again, as softly as she could.

Another shudder, but still that unnatural Watcher-trained evenness in his voice. "We'd been fighting. But we'd reached a better place, she'd said she was coming by, and when I came home that night – there was opera playing on the stereo. I hate opera far worse than roses, by the way, always have done."

"All right-thinking people do," she said, holding him tighter.

He managed a shaky laugh before he dropped his head onto her shoulder. She could feel the shivers cascade in him, nothing but a river of pain, and she almost stopped him from going further. She hadn't known what she was asking, she thought numbly, she shouldn't have asked. But: "There was opera, and candles, and roses – all leading up to my bed. You remember my Sunnydale apartment–"

"Upstairs, in the loft. I remember." Oh God, she knew where this was going. The image in the vision – roses of blood, and shattered glass.

"Yes. So I picked a rose from the arrangement, and I walked up the stairs. Roses and a drink in my hand, and I was so happy. I smelled the rose, and then I saw her lying in my bed, and–" His arms convulsed so that she almost couldn't breathe, he wasn't breathing, and he finished in a rush, "And she was dead. Angelus had left her there for me to find."

"Rupert, oh my God–" She turned around to find his mouth with hers, kiss away the salt-tears he'd tried to suppress. He wasn't a man who cried easily, she knew. Another kiss of saltwater grief, before she said, "The roses are gone, I'll dump them all. Don't ever think about it again."

"No, that won't work." He brought his hands up to cradle her face, a mirror to what she'd done moments before. "I can't give in to it. I shouldn't."

"For once in your life, my honey, make it easy on yourself," she whispered.

"But I have, dearest. I married you," he whispered back.

"Yes, this looks pretty damn easy." She brought her thumb up to catch one of his last tears, then licked it off. She needed to taste the hurt she'd caused, share in the sorrow. "I'm so sorry. I pushed, I always push when I shouldn't."

"It's all right. I've been avoiding so long, I'm rather good at it – but perhaps I need to be more constructive in my approach."

"And you say you're not a Watcher," she muttered. "Good God."

"No, really." He leaned past her and pulled one rose out of the vase. She was close enough to feel one last shiver, before he put the rose to his face, took a deep breath. Then he opened his eyes. "There you are. My wife, quite alive." His voice barely broke on the last word.

Almost there, almost there. She always pushed where she shouldn't, but – "Rupert, one more thing. How could you ever forgive Buffy for Angelus?"

"Anya, bloody hell!" Dark vengeance in his eyes: she knew what that was like. But he let it go, fading like mist. Slowly, quietly, as if he were learning the words in a new language, he said, "Because she needed it. That's what I told her."

"Okay. Now forgive yourself, because you need it a whole lot more."

"God, Anya–" He took his glasses off and threw them on the counter somewhere, then let his weight bear her back onto the table. When her back touched the vase, sharp edges hurting, she tried to tell him, but he was before her. With one sweeping movement, he sent the vase and the roses flying onto the stone flags. And then he was kissing her, saltwater grief and Scotch and Rupert-taste. She brought him as close to her as she could, her hands in his hair.

More sounds of breaking – there went the plate, she thought -- as his weight pushed her further onto the table, as he slid on top of her. God, he was heavy, but he was perfect, it was so good. His thigh pressed between her legs; she rode him as he slid higher and higher. When his mouth found hers again, she arched up hard into his hand on her breast, into the press of his leg. "More. More is good," she said indistinctly.

He nipped at her neck, oh her favourite, then raised himself up. Although his hips never stopped moving, his silk-covered cock tantalising her, not enough never enough, he stared down at her with eyes gone dark. Mist had crept in to silver him, sharpen his edges.

And she realised he still had the rose in his hand. He'd cut himself on the thorns, there was blood on the flower, but he didn't seem to notice. Even as he slid against her, higher and harder, with finger and thumb he dropped petal after petal on her breasts, red and soft and wet. "There we are," he said, voice still shaking. "My wife, quite alive, and covered in roses. A better memory."

She couldn't say anything. But she helped him tear open his pajama bottoms, free him for her. She brought him into her, her legs around his back, her hips angled so he could go deeper. She lifted to meet him, up and down and around, and although she couldn't speak, she could moan her pleasure and her love. She breathed in the scent of roses when she came, and she held him when he followed, shivering like he'd never stop.

There were still tears on his tongue when she kissed him.

But when finally he rested, his body heavy on hers, all the warmth in the world on this cold night, she could find words again. "So, honey, are we good?"

"Quite good," he whispered, his bloodied hand finding hers. They lay together for a few moments, hands clasped, listening to guitars and night-quiet. Then, with an odd little catch in his voice: "Of course, with various nightmares and work horrors and unwanted guests, I fully anticipate your berating me about this sodding horrible honeymoon for the rest of our lives."

"Don't be idiotic. It's been perfect, Rupert." When he blew out his breath in disbelief, she slapped him on the back to make him understand. He had to see: "No, really, honey. Much better than your stupid old Paris."

[The series will continue with "Postern of Fate."


End file.
